tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34432779310117892232014-10-01T12:31:15.359+05:30Matt Balaban's BlogWhat South Asia had to say to me...Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-7247635708023542812013-01-27T11:41:00.001+05:302013-01-27T11:41:23.428+05:30Garments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZW5HNWCeBUk/UQS8H6XPt1I/AAAAAAAAAFo/wrD3Toy7yOM/s1600/garment.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZW5HNWCeBUk/UQS8H6XPt1I/AAAAAAAAAFo/wrD3Toy7yOM/s320/garment.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sitting in a smokey eatery too small for me to stand up straight in, over vegetable dishes and half eaten naan, I apologized to my friend Laura. “I really let my emotions get the best of me,” I was saying. “I didn't realize that was going to happen. I hope I didn't freak you out or anything.” With a nod of understanding, I could tell she fully understood. She said that she had somewhat similar reactions upon her first visit to a location of her Fulbright research topic for the year: the garment industry. &nbsp;I was embarrassed. Talk about 'not being yourself'. That day I had shut down; stopped talking; snapped in irrational hostility if I did, or perhaps soft and dismally, indecisively, and in a limbo-like disbelieving haze; avoiding eye contact; wet eyes; a confused face; a lost expression.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />I had agreed,&nbsp;somewhat on a whim,&nbsp;to go on a Friday with Laura and a traveler staying with us interested in seeing a garment factory. I hadn't really thought about doing that before, but the opportunity presented itself and I saw no reason not to go. I felt eerie inside the moment our car got near; abject slum gave way to a fortress; the muddy, garbage-laden road buzzing with snot-nosed half-clothed children led to a massive iron gate fortified with high concrete walls topped with spiral barbed wire. The factory itself had amenities I was pleased to see: semblance of a fire-safety system, lots of space, a cloth testing laboratory, a small childcare center, a sound order. I was mesmerized by the way they cut the cloth – several people at once working on a six inch stack of a hundred layers, masks and iron gloves for protection, guiding sturdy vertical electric saws, buzzing through paper patterns that were drawn on top of the stack. The quality check in the next room was busy feeding cloth through a rotating display machine so they could label every imperfection that was noticeable. It had come from China. It was being processed there, and then was to be shipped to JC Penny's throughout the US. Quite a global endeavor. Then the next floor – a high-ceilinged warehouse-style assembly line-like arrangement with hundreds of people repeating their one step duty over and over and over again. The order was staggering. Activity everywhere, uncountable people. I followed a line of seated workers, glancing at their work as if I were some task-master. Morbid associations of Schindler's list-style factory line-up crossed my mind. No one looked at me. The proud white man, looking over your shoulder, as if scrutinizing. But, must do nothing but keep working, working, working. Stay in the rhythm; keep productivity high. Sew the pocket here. Stamp the metal button here. Fold and sew, cut and stitch, down the line, one step, one step, one step at a time. It must be somewhat mind-numbingly meditative, the rhythm, the same thing, over and over again for hours on end. Each sewing machine was specially-designed for that one worker's task. Each fit perfectly in a long line up of dozens of steps. The design, the planning, the communication for the set-up, the order, the perfection.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V1OLn7dfrZ4/UQS8kUBe8jI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/NYZjfW7nAqo/s1600/garment6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V1OLn7dfrZ4/UQS8kUBe8jI/AAAAAAAAAGQ/NYZjfW7nAqo/s320/garment6.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5hTAFCDyf5o/UQS9kz7HSzI/AAAAAAAAAGk/HAZeKLKoUuI/s1600/garment..png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5hTAFCDyf5o/UQS9kz7HSzI/AAAAAAAAAGk/HAZeKLKoUuI/s1600/garment..png" /></a>How did they know what to do? How does this happen? How can I build a precision-labyrinth of so many steps from across the world? As questions flew around in my head, I reached the end of the line. There they were, the madras shorts. One pair, another, and another, every few seconds. I stared at the pair hung up to label the work being done on that line. Other people would see at that pair. Not the Bangladeshi consumer. I've never seen anything like that here. But how is that possible? There are so many here! Such production, but no sales. The chief export, number two in the world (right after China), such a massive industry, but they will go right into boxes. Quality-checked and neatly organized, sterile-style tightly packed boxes will leave the factory fortress, be carried on those exclusive 'emergency export' trucks to the Chittagong port - an elusive and strictly forbidden area. Some ship will carry these across the world's oceans, contact with no one. Somehow then the next eyes that see them belong to a child enjoying a soft pretzel, a group of slightly hung-over teenagers who don't have anything better to do on a weekend than browse through a mall, a soccer mom eyeing another item on a birthday list. The 'Made in Bangladesh' print on the tag, however, doesn't get much attention, a distracted glance at best, promptly disregarded by the accustomed habit of seeing that every item for sale is made in some foreign country. Doesn't really matter. Is this on sale today? …</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My mind drifted back to Bangladesh. I was back in the factory with the hundreds of dedicated ant-like workers. Snipping, sewing, stamping, folding away – mindless moments. Robotic work 6 days a week dawn until dusk. A 50 dollar pay check per month. Any one of those workers would have probably said they were thankful for it, no doubt. I stared longer at the hanging pair of US fashion in this Bangladesh factory. How? How? Two worlds collided in my head. I associated the US with order, punctuality, state-of-the-art means. Bangladesh outrightly defied this with its disorganization, political strife, infuriating traffic, time-guzzling bureaucracy, and reactionary maneuvers instead of pre-planned proactivity. Somehow these worlds overlapped in a way that suddenly was so tangible: the madras shorts were right in front of me. And just as suddenly, I realized how much I didn't grasp. It's easy to think you understand the way things work when you go about your days becoming more and more familiar with the same environment. Then I realized, like opening a door and shining a flashlight aimlessly into a massive pitch black room, there are an innumerable amount of questions I didn't know the answers to. How was all this coordinated from across the globe? How is this even possible? Where did all of this machinery actually come from? What were the lives like of these workers? How did they really feel about their work? Is this right? Why is this so hidden? What would happen if more Westerners were able to be exposed to an environment like this? What else am I missing here? What about the other hundreds of factories in this city that I've never seen? Are they like this? What about any other product? Any other thing that I've seen “Made in China” written on? How do all of these things get everywhere? Don't those ships move so slowly across those endless oceans? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Is it safe to work here? </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The day before, I had just visited the factory that had recently burned down. A shell of a building, the interior charred and black with thick cloth ashes covering huge sections of the floor. The folding metal sliding gates in the stairwells: closed by guards who told the workers there was actually nothing to be worried about. But there was. What was it like when hundreds of people on a factory floor suddenly realize the floor beneath them is churning in flames? What was it like when they all realized they were locked in and couldn't escape? What was it like for those people who broke through the metal bars on one of the windows, having to choose between the intensifying furnace behind you and the pavement in front of you, 9 stories down? How searingly hot it must have been to force them all to jump to their deaths? What was it like to be burned alive, to become an unrecognizable heap of black charred flesh, only your teeth marking you as having been a person once? What was it like for your family to find you like that, or not find you at all? What was it like for them to have so many unanswered questions? Was this really intentional? Where was the factory owner? Did he really have someone burn the factory down to collect insurance money? Would he really get more compensation for every worker lost? Why were they locked in? Was this a deliberate incineration of between 300-1200 lives? Were the other 5 smaller fires at garment factories this month also planned, or were they flukes, the product of negligent safety standards? What was it like for the families, that woman I talked to on the street outside who said her daughter was one of the victims, to have no answers, to be lost in despair and aimless anger, nothing to hold onto other than the dejectedness from knowing that your child was incinerated alive for no reason, for a preventable reason, or worse yet, because someone wanted money. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WERo2d6RuCM/UQS8gH8dxRI/AAAAAAAAAGA/Ty-uI0txH20/s1600/garment3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WERo2d6RuCM/UQS8gH8dxRI/AAAAAAAAAGA/Ty-uI0txH20/s1600/garment3.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RuYF7ZxRm7A/UQS8dgvApAI/AAAAAAAAAFw/w_CL8uQR1Is/s1600/garment2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RuYF7ZxRm7A/UQS8dgvApAI/AAAAAAAAAFw/w_CL8uQR1Is/s1600/garment2.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pdT_xWnbJUU/UQS8fPskVAI/AAAAAAAAAF4/u5koREzCJZw/s1600/garment1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pdT_xWnbJUU/UQS8fPskVAI/AAAAAAAAAF4/u5koREzCJZw/s400/garment1.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />The madras shorts stared back at me. I looked down at a woman sewing the logo on each pair, then the guy behind her, my age. No one had glanced at me. The Bangladeshi warmth and curiosity and staring and smiles and annoying but harmless questions were not meant for a task-master place like this. This didn't feel like Bangladesh, but it was. It actually was. To reconcile this, I had to admit that Bangladesh was not just a road-side tea stall conversation, its unique mix of time-to-time annoyances but general carefreeness and warm-heartedness. It was also a very important but very disenfranchised and under-privileged player in a very big, very influential, but poorly visible global framework. In a web of interconnectedness that we actually were all a part of but rarely whole-heartedly attempt to conceive. And only more questions come, more questions, an ever-widening picture.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4jAYwblKlGk/UQS8hnx-zCI/AAAAAAAAAGI/sgghjjE9vU4/s1600/garment5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4jAYwblKlGk/UQS8hnx-zCI/AAAAAAAAAGI/sgghjjE9vU4/s1600/garment5.png" /></a></div><br />I was glad I got around to apologizing (albeit several weeks later) for being so self-absorbed in confusion - the pained, unwelcoming look on my face the whole day. Fortunately at that time over our meal that evening it was much more comfortable to revisit the notions and questions that that experience had unleashed. As I wrapped up my explanation, I became aware of Laura nodding in her agreeing attentiveness. “Yeah, yes, absolutely. Stuff like that is hard to articulate.” Then, not missing a beat, as if there were no doubt, “I hope you wrote that down. I don't know if you blog or something, but you need to write that down."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXRdBk3UxNs/UQS8n-gf2WI/AAAAAAAAAGY/V0jJaUWP1to/s1600/garment.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LXRdBk3UxNs/UQS8n-gf2WI/AAAAAAAAAGY/V0jJaUWP1to/s1600/garment.png" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Matt Balabanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553246310159327814noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-71394391896586492952012-11-03T19:15:00.003+05:302012-11-03T19:53:53.654+05:30Farming in Feni<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings></xml><![endif]--> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> 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mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style><![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal">The idea of working on a farm as compensation for food and lodging, while all the while getting to experience a new way of life and a new country, has been a tantalizing one for me for quite some time. An organization called WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) provides such opportunities, and I've been interested in participating in it since I first heard about it. &nbsp;There are seemingly hundreds of locations in India that participate in WWOOFing, but Bangladesh sports a fledgling one or two, having only been started 2 years ago. &nbsp;I've tried to engage in farming-related activities in Bangladesh before, especially that time last year when I went off to a random village in the West to try to help with the mango harvest. &nbsp;In general though, when I as a foreigner try to do work, I'm met with huge resistance. &nbsp;Guests are not supposed to work. &nbsp;They are to be shuffled around in plastic chairs, kept in the shade, stuffed with food, and shown places to photograph. &nbsp;You can guess that I'm not one to abide by such a prescription. &nbsp;Perhaps going through an organization where the premise was that I would actually be working would fare differently. &nbsp;It was no easy task getting things set up; the organizer would respond to emails up to a week after I had sent them, he couldn't seem to understand that I lived in Bangladesh and therefore could not Western Union the money needed for the registration fee (despite my repeated reminders), and I needed to make a day long trip through the city to pay that 25 dollar fee in person. &nbsp;When I was discussing with him about what could be set up, I was surprised to find out that it was customary to pay an additional 3 dollars a day for food and such. &nbsp;Maybe for a foreigner who is new to Bangladesh and who would brush off such a fee as minimal compared to the cost of living in the West (and hey, it would help those poor Bangladeshi farmers anyway, right?), this is no big deal. &nbsp;It didn't take much time wrestling with my ethics before I decided that if I had to pay something daily, this opportunity was not for me. &nbsp;Two thousand taka for registration was enough, and I'm going to&nbsp;<i>work</i>; ideally this work and the effort it would take would be my payment for whatever cost my living there would incur. &nbsp;Plus, 3 dollars per day is actually too much per day for food (especially because I wasn't expecting to eat meat), I wouldn't know how that money is actually going to be spent (it could just be hoarded by some guy), and lastly, I'm not interested in&nbsp;propagating&nbsp;the largely false notion that Westerners have money to freely dispose of. &nbsp;After explaining this to them, adding the fact that I could simply on my own hop on a bus going to any random place and attempt to do the same thing without all these charges, the truth started to emerge. &nbsp;They had had foreigners in the past come to the farm and live like "kings" (so he spoke), eating, touring, and soaking in the village life experience without contributing much. &nbsp;Well, in that case, fine, you should have to pay. &nbsp;But that was not what I was going to do. &nbsp;Evidently I still needed to battle the conception that foreigners won't or can't work. &nbsp;After some discussion, it was decided that I didn't have to pay and that it wouldn't be a problem. &nbsp;It's funny how I would have never argued about it if I were going to some other country I didn't know. &nbsp;But here in Bangladesh, there was no major question in my mind about what I wanted to have transpire, even if it meant going against the customs of a well-known international organization. &nbsp;Because of the upcoming Eid holidays, there was some delay in finding a host what was available, but eventually I was on my way to some guy's village in Feni.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-svtXNhZGLUc/UJUVExVzV9I/AAAAAAAAAEg/Wt8car7lfRA/s1600/804_1382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-svtXNhZGLUc/UJUVExVzV9I/AAAAAAAAAEg/Wt8car7lfRA/s320/804_1382.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Mh5DSQ1UiI/UJUS4-fLylI/AAAAAAAAADQ/d1vQNr9Fco0/s320/804_1342.JPG" width="320" /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The fact that I could easily get a bus ticket from Dhaka did not reflect the sheer quantity of people involved in an exodus from Dhaka to their native village homes. &nbsp;This chaotic push out of the city during the Eid holidays is notorious for being time consuming. &nbsp;Two years ago when I went to Barisal, it took 4 hours by bus simply to get across the city to the docks. &nbsp;The journey to Feni is usually around 3-4 hours by bus from Dhaka, but my trip took 9, with constant traffic, many times paused bumper to bumper. &nbsp;Because I got in late (maybe around 1 am), I slept at the bus station and went to the village the next morning. &nbsp;I wasn't too keen on paying the 100-150 taka CNG (auto-rickshaw) ride out of Feni to the village, so I scouted for the local CNGs that would go to a nearby area with multiple passengers. &nbsp;After finding one, the guy sitting next to me was excited to hear that we were going to the exact same area (I think he was a nephew of the owner of the farm), and he hopped out and beckoned me to do the same so that we could split a reserved CNG. &nbsp;So hard to know what to do in situations like this. &nbsp;I hate CNG rides that are reserved. &nbsp;They are overly expensive and unnecessary. &nbsp;It makes the difference between private and public&nbsp;transportation. &nbsp;In a knee-jerk reaction to avoid giving in to comforts offered to me (perhaps he thought it would be more suitable for a foreigner to ride in a private one rather than a local one), I stayed put and requested that he come back in the local CNG and wait for more people to fill it. &nbsp;The driver got angry that he had jumped out trying to find a different CNG (these local CNG drivers at this particular stop I was at were tough cookies, later on that week I saw one of them get in a fist fight with a passenger. &nbsp;I don't know what it was about, but it was the only physical altercation that I think I've ever seen in Bangladesh). &nbsp;In the blink of an eye, to spite my&nbsp;potential&nbsp;companion who had gotten out, the driver sped off. &nbsp;Well, now I definitely couldn't get out even if I had changed my mind. &nbsp;This was not what I had expected, and I was angry. &nbsp;He must have been thinking that he can prove a point to that other guy by leaving him behind (don't mess with me, man) and also thinking that as a foreigner it would be no problem for me to pay a reserved fee. &nbsp;I explained to him that I wanted him to collect more people because I could not afford the private fee. &nbsp;He didn't respond. &nbsp;Fuming, I reasoned that I simply would get out and pay the local fare of 20 taka even if he asked for more. &nbsp;I craftily took out all the money in my wallet except for 32 taka. &nbsp;When we reached the farm, he asked for 100. &nbsp;Putting on my&nbsp;reprimanding teacher face, I told him that I explained that I didn't want a private CNG and that he didn't listen. &nbsp;The excuse was that he didn't understand my words. &nbsp;Bull shit. &nbsp;&nbsp;I emptied the contents of my wallet for him (yes this was working out just as I had planned), and then Sumon came (the owner of the farm), and gave him another 30 (not what I had wanted, but whatever). &nbsp;All this commotion over a dollar, but I hate the argument that it doesn't matter because it's such a small amount anyway. &nbsp;It's the&nbsp;principle&nbsp;of the thing. &nbsp;Sumon was a hefty, bubbly, energetic man with a gaze that could convince you his viewpoint was completely indisputable. &nbsp;He must have gotten that attribute through practice. &nbsp;I was going to find out that arguing for not only CNG fares but also any other purchased product was going to be commonplace. &nbsp;As a matter of fact, on one of our trips into Feni city (which took 15-20 minutes) to get something, Sumon instigated a debate about CNG fares during Eid time that involved every single one of the 6 members stuffed inside. &nbsp;Well, excluding me, I actually can't really understand their informal language at all. &nbsp;This fiery exchange lasted for the entire journey. &nbsp;It was all over 5 taka. &nbsp;Such exchanges, although&nbsp;competitive&nbsp;in nature, demonstrate a larger interest in debate as a subtle form of entertainment. &nbsp;Many people make the claim that Bengalis debate one other all the time. &nbsp;I'd agree. &nbsp;The tone they take with one another could instantly ignite an uncontrollable fist fight in the US, coupled with the side effect of permanent grudges afterward. &nbsp;However, after the yelling and interrupting and commotion is through, all parties involved usually seem cordially at ease, even amused, and even if they've "lost." &nbsp;During that CNG ride when everyone was stirred up in their yelling, I chuckled as one of the passengers who was getting off, as he handed the driver his fare, apologized for all the discussion and very earnestly said that he hoped it didn't cause him too much trouble. &nbsp;A few days later, I was buying a poster in Feni. &nbsp;The shop keeper asked for thirty. &nbsp;Sumon rushes over to me. &nbsp;"Wait, Matt, you want to buy this right?" &nbsp;As soon as I nod, he throws his full attention on the shop keeper and demands in a low-tone, very serious voice that he should ask for only 10. &nbsp;I knew he was giving him his stare of intent, his stare that suggested that there was no there other option. &nbsp;The shop keeper an him went back and forth a bit. &nbsp;I was fine to pay 20; Sumon kept up his demand for 10. &nbsp;The shopkeeper actually started giggling a little bit. &nbsp;I handed over something like 17 taka, and he took it as he was smiling, as if he was enjoying this little exchange as much as I could tell Sumon was. &nbsp;It's like a game, with winners and losers. &nbsp;The shop keeper knew he could not contend with Sumon's brute power. &nbsp;He probably even lost money through my purchase, but in the end, it was a good time and we all walk away with a smug look on our faces. &nbsp;Granted, not always is it this easy, but I've definitely got that hint from shop keepers before...a face like "ok, ok, you can have it, no profit for me, but hey, what's the big deal, that was fun."&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sumon's farm was not much larger than others that I've seen: an area for rice, an area for vegetables, scattered fruit trees, a few ponds to raise fish, and about a dozen cows. &nbsp;His single house had many rooms and was concrete instead of mud, wood, and tin. &nbsp;I never really went in there. &nbsp;I never really spoke with any of the women who were there either (there were many visiting for Eid). &nbsp;I could tell right off the bat that a more conservative separation between the genders was in place; the area where the women would wash dishes and clothes was in the corner of the pond and sectioned off with tin so others in the pond wouldn't see. &nbsp;Sumon hinted that I probably should not go there, and I should check the area by the house to see if there were women before going. &nbsp;Sumon is a playful character though; these weren't demands, they were just recommendations, and really not even his. &nbsp;You could tell it was for the women. &nbsp;His eyes would get big in his explanation..."well, they'll quickly become unsettled to have a male around they don't know." &nbsp;Sure enough, when I was in the vicinity, usually the women could cover up their heads, turn, and maybe go away. &nbsp;So suffice it to say, I never met his wife, but after a few days there was no anxiety when I would go near the house to dry my clothes on the line or meet Sumon or something, just usually silence. &nbsp;I stayed in a room that was built into the "barn" for the cows, a tin/concrete&nbsp;structure that housed them and their straw for food (their troughs were filled with a mixture dominated by straw, but complimented by cut green grass and stewed together with water and ground up mustard seeds, rice grain, and wheat grain). &nbsp;I had a door that went right into where the cows stayed and even a small window to see how they were doing. &nbsp;It didn't always smell the best there, but it was mostly unnoticeable. &nbsp;The setup was actually really great; I was out of their house and not bound by customs that go along with it, especially the stifling hospitality that people usually feel the need to inflict upon you. &nbsp;Instead, it was just me and the cows. &nbsp;And the mosquitoes. &nbsp;I've never seen so many when they come out at dusk. &nbsp;But I had my mosquito net, and after crawling inside with only the light from my cell phone to see with and hearing the chirping and humming of various jungle-like life outside, it felt just like camping. &nbsp;I got used to no running water very easily. &nbsp;The water I'd drink came from a tube well. &nbsp;The bathroom I would use was basically an outhouse, and I'd collect the water I needed to use from the pond in two small buckets before I went. &nbsp;That pond (right in front of the cow house as well as Sumon's house) was so multipurpose. &nbsp;The dishes were washed there (with straw and ash), the clothes were washed there, people would bathe there, and sometimes you'd even toss your garbage in there too. &nbsp;I was against that one. &nbsp;Many days I'd swim around and collect the plastic I could find, stack it up on the concrete steps in front of the dozen or so kids that would be inevitably watching me, and claim to them that the pond and this trash do not mix, sometimes with more frustration, sometimes with less. &nbsp;Once when I did this a kid said to me that this was Bangladesh, and this is just what we do here (you usually get this rationale when someone in the street is&nbsp;surprised&nbsp;to see you tick a wrapper away in your pocket instead of tossing it onto the road). &nbsp;I told him that this is not Bangladesh, this is trash, and this is a pond, and they do not belong together. &nbsp;Sometimes you just cannot shake that habit though. &nbsp;Once, I was swimming back to the steps with some styrofoam and was slightly enraged to see the chip bag wrapper that I had just placed there a few moments ago floating in the water. &nbsp;It had been tossed back in after having been examined by some of the kids. &nbsp;"Oh my God," I said,"didn't I just explain to you that I'm collecting this garbage so that it's taken away from the pond?! (all this was of course in Bangla)" &nbsp;The tiny faces mostly just stared at me. &nbsp;Perhaps some things just don't change that quickly. &nbsp;After I'd collect this trash though, our problems weren't solved. &nbsp;The custom was to go out away from the house and toss it amongst the trees. &nbsp;All that plastic. &nbsp;I very intently explained that it wasn't good for their environment, but a slightly disabling notion crept up in the back of my mind. &nbsp;How does any person get rid of this plastic? &nbsp;Trucks haul it away from you when you live in the city, but that doesn't mean that it all disappears. &nbsp;Perhaps it would even be better for this relatively small quantity to be absorbed into the relative vastness of this village open space rather than collected into an ever-growing common heap. &nbsp;I've heard Staten Island's is visible from space. &nbsp;Becoming unaware of the right course of action, I maintained that the pond needed to be kept free from garbage, but then it just accumulated in a tin bucket by the house, and I don't know what they did with it after I left a week and a half later.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--GBw6oCf_CI/UJUSnGg4_7I/AAAAAAAAADI/X4301pQ7isc/s1600/804_1341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--GBw6oCf_CI/UJUSnGg4_7I/AAAAAAAAADI/X4301pQ7isc/s320/804_1341.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-79lRvv5owH0/UJUSRzVGy9I/AAAAAAAAADA/_CeUPJTP6MQ/s1600/804_1339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-79lRvv5owH0/UJUSRzVGy9I/AAAAAAAAADA/_CeUPJTP6MQ/s320/804_1339.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My first day there started with Sumon telling me that I should just rest and watch Sunil, a hired helping hand, take care of the cows. &nbsp;I was hoping that this wasn't going to turn into a battle with me insisting that I work, but of course it's best not to jump into things too quickly. &nbsp;Later that day we went to a site closer to Feni where Sumon's relative was building an apartment building. &nbsp;Despite the action taking place (shoveling brick pieces and sand for the concrete, getting water from the well for the concrete, putting the concrete in buckets, carrying them up the steps to the top floor, etc.) and despite my insistence that I at least do something, I spent most of my time, right where a guest "should" be, sitting in the shade in a plastic chair. &nbsp;I guess it was for the best. &nbsp;Even though I tried inserting myself into their system of work, I was rather quickly pushed out, maybe because I was too slow, or more likely because they really did have things set up just right with the dozen-and-a-half or so workers there such that everything was working like a well-oiled machine. &nbsp;And work it did. &nbsp;They kept up their sweaty,&nbsp;grueling pace all day. &nbsp;That kind of work is just what I would like to do from time to time. &nbsp;Really letting off steam, that&nbsp;repetitive activity soothing the mind's focus, a tangible result, worn-out muscles...just the sort of thing that teaching English lacks. &nbsp;Bus alas, that was not my role for the day. &nbsp;My role, to my dismay, may have actually been simply to be there as a foreigner, boosting Sumon's credibility and reputation perhaps, and acting as a notable taskmaster pair of eyes to keep prodding the workers on, because look, there is a foreigner watching and you wouldn't want to disappoint him with a lack of progress. &nbsp;Maybe that's just my pessimistic outlook, but whatever the case, I eventually got into a daily routine at the farm that certainly involved effort. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Waking up around eight-ish, I'd tie on a lungi (cloth around the legs) and a gamcha (thin towel) on my head and accompany Sunil as we cleaned the cow pen. &nbsp;This was a dirty job, to say the least. &nbsp;After an entire night of urinating and&nbsp;defecting, &nbsp;the entire concrete floor was covered in dung of various consistencies and needed to be shoveled up. &nbsp;In order to get it onto the codal (a shovel with the blade at a right angle to the wooden handle), you needed to push it onto the blade with your foot. &nbsp;After your tarp-lined basket was full, you lifted it up and set it on your head to then walk out behind the pen and trust it all forward like a catapult onto the heaping mound. &nbsp;This was actually much easier than carrying the basket below your head; it's funny you don't see anyone carrying stuff on their head in the US. &nbsp;Cow dung surprisingly doesn't have much of a smell involved (thank heavens), but this humbling first-thing-in-the-morning activity was still one of the&nbsp;grossest&nbsp;things I've done. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-frdMTcpZ6tE/UJUR6dEseSI/AAAAAAAAACw/NPd9EuvBj78/s1600/804_1331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-frdMTcpZ6tE/UJUR6dEseSI/AAAAAAAAACw/NPd9EuvBj78/s320/804_1331.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LmuXUBY1Kq8/UJUUCorGVmI/AAAAAAAAAD8/pVMeMs25PfU/s1600/804_1372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LmuXUBY1Kq8/UJUUCorGVmI/AAAAAAAAAD8/pVMeMs25PfU/s320/804_1372.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O5jfDybFylw/UJUcJLoTaWI/AAAAAAAAAE4/koF0iqOEJfM/s1600/804_1374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O5jfDybFylw/UJUcJLoTaWI/AAAAAAAAAE4/koF0iqOEJfM/s320/804_1374.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sunil would spray the floor down with water after it was clear, and (depending on how messy I was with dung from head to foot) afterward I may or may not take a swim in the pond. &nbsp;At about that time Sumon would call me with breakfast, usually bread (a really fluffy variety from Feni that I totally loved) or tortilla-like pancakes made from rice flower with bananas and maybe a fried egg if I had bought them recently. &nbsp;Tea or milk might work it's way in there too. &nbsp;Despite being on a cow farm, I only got milk a handful of times. &nbsp;Milk is actually very expensive, so perhaps they usually sold all it. &nbsp;When the tea was made with the cow milk, oh my, that was a treat. &nbsp;It much more tasty than the usual tea you get at tea stalls made with sweetened condensed milk and added sugar. &nbsp;The rest of the morning I'd usually cut straw. &nbsp;This was the main name of the game for me during my stay. &nbsp;Straw always needed to be cut for the cows, and it took quite a while, so it was the perfect thing for me to do. &nbsp;Set up in the corner of the pen where the straw is heaped and the warm lighting reminds me of the inside of Will Turner's sword shop in Pirates of the Caribbean, I would toil away for hours bunching up the straw and thrusting it forward and downward onto the stationary vertical blade that I would keep in place with my right foot. &nbsp;My lower back would grow painful if I would sit like that for too long, and my hands would be quite weak afterward, having been squeezing the straw bunches for so long. &nbsp;My right foot, on which I'd bunch up the straw before cutting it, grew a bit raw and even bled a bit just from the sheer volume of straw that would come across it. &nbsp;It was a pretty&nbsp;meditative&nbsp;task because of it's repetition, and I found myself&nbsp;drifting&nbsp;off into memories while I cut away. &nbsp;Despite the pain it would sometimes cause, I was most comfortable doing that work and eventually identified with that role, such that it would be my default task if there was nothing else going on. &nbsp;By my second to last day, I had finished all of the straw in the pen. &nbsp;That evening though, Sumon bought enough of a straw stock to fill the pen storage area to the brim. &nbsp;It took Sunil and another worker hours to move the truckloads of it from the from the home's gate to the cow pen. &nbsp;They moved it by placing quantities on their heads that were so large, straw practically the size of a mini van would shield most of their bodies from view, so that the massive clump seemed to simply float along above the ground. &nbsp;It was daunting to see the towering amount of straw pack the pen's storage area that evening. &nbsp;That's ok though, it would last for maybe 2 months, and I didn't need to cut it all. &nbsp;Still, I had a staggering conceptualization of how long it would take to do so.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cy7Pkvxs8q0/UJUUhd-jVOI/AAAAAAAAAEM/DIBz7euMyDY/s1600/804_1377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cy7Pkvxs8q0/UJUUhd-jVOI/AAAAAAAAAEM/DIBz7euMyDY/s320/804_1377.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I would experiment with different styles of cutting it too. &nbsp;Sometimes I'd twist the bundle so it was tight before I cut; I'd vary the amount to straw too. &nbsp;Eventually to became proud of my technique, but Sunil came by and claimed that I could do more. &nbsp;He sat down on the small plank propped up with 4 bricks and blew me out of the water, the straw being bunched up each time in a heap I would have not previously considered possible and being completely cut in only 2-3 strokes, compared to my usual 4-6. &nbsp;Sunil was a small man with small hands. &nbsp;Evidently that didn't make a difference. &nbsp;He had been working for Sumon, doing cow care work everyday, for the past 2 years, getting paid 3 dollars a day, an amount manageable for his food, his rented room for about $8.50 a month, and some savings he'd send to his wife and children living at their home. &nbsp;He didn't like living away from his family. &nbsp;One day he grew very silent and I saw him tearing up a bit. &nbsp;Sumon said it was because he was thinking about how much he missed his wife and children. &nbsp;I ended up becoming fast friends with Sunil. &nbsp;We'd work together, buy each other tea,&nbsp;biscuits, and bananas during our breaks (which would come frequently enough so that work never lasted more than about 2 unbroken hours), and sometimes walk around the small nearby town in the evening after work was finished. &nbsp;Sunil wouldn't say much, and when he would speak I truly only grasped about 15% of it. &nbsp;Village language is so different. &nbsp;That's ok though, he'd repeat when I'd ask him too, I'd smile and nod the rest of the time when I didn't get it, and with tasks anyway it's best to observe. &nbsp;He'd understand everything I'd say though. &nbsp;It was a funny sort of communication.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rhNOaNfQ8E8/UJUSHDDZEgI/AAAAAAAAAC4/wOghpf6hO-Q/s1600/804_1332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rhNOaNfQ8E8/UJUSHDDZEgI/AAAAAAAAAC4/wOghpf6hO-Q/s320/804_1332.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ec4nSud4W8E/UJURiKhYIaI/AAAAAAAAACg/yNJH8i1o76Y/s1600/804_1328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ec4nSud4W8E/UJURiKhYIaI/AAAAAAAAACg/yNJH8i1o76Y/s320/804_1328.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kk9hzZvgCi0/UJUb8SEzmOI/AAAAAAAAAEw/5hW6KDEys7g/s1600/804_1355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kk9hzZvgCi0/UJUb8SEzmOI/AAAAAAAAAEw/5hW6KDEys7g/s320/804_1355.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'd swim and bathe before lunchtime, which was around 2. &nbsp;Bathing in public has always been something I've been envious of other people for, because when I try it, I'm so awkward and clumsy. &nbsp;After a few days though, it became quite simple, the trick is to keep yourself covered from the waist down the lungi or towel you're wearing, even though you need to need to use soap down in that area and even though you need to remove the lungi you've been swimming with while you dry. &nbsp;As you can imagine, that situation doesn't become any easier when you have dozens of pairs of curious eyes, sometimes including females, staring at you the whole time. &nbsp;I liked swimming in the pond. &nbsp;It was kindof scary having the fish nibble at me from time to time, but it was relaxing nonetheless. &nbsp;After swimming and bathing, I'd wash my shirt and lungi with the same bar of soap. &nbsp;I'd hang them up to dry, and they'd only take a few hours in the beaming sunlight to be finished. &nbsp;Around 1-3 or 3:30 there was a bit of a lull in the day where all the shops would close and most people would be resting (Sunil would have gone back to his room too). &nbsp;Sumon would bring my food in metal tiffin containers, and I'd eat somewhere. &nbsp;The food was good, but constantly had a backdrop flavor of shrimp or dried fish. &nbsp;By the way (vegetarians beware), those fishy additions do not make a vegetable dish (in Bangladeshi understanding) anything else than still just a vegetable dish. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rLgBN670Vqc/UJUUvQiUivI/AAAAAAAAAEY/wbJMQ55fTHk/s1600/804_1380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rLgBN670Vqc/UJUUvQiUivI/AAAAAAAAAEY/wbJMQ55fTHk/s320/804_1380.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I got out of the habit of eating in my room because of the incessant ants. &nbsp;By the time you'd finish eating, the grains of rice you would have dropped would already have been carried halfway across the floor. &nbsp;I think there was a mouse too; one morning I was surprised to find that one of the bananas I had hanging from the ceiling had been halfway nibbled away. &nbsp;After resting/eating/reading I'd meander my way back into some form of work when Sunil would return and we'd work for another 2 hours or so until dusk. &nbsp;At that time, maybe I'd swim, maybe Sumon and his nephews and I would sit in my mosquito-ridden room and have conversations, or maybe we'd go wandering up and down the town road, chatting with various people. &nbsp;Invitations to have tea would be ceaseless no matter how late it was. &nbsp;Once at around 9 pm Sunil offered an energy drink (people basically consider it to be tasty soda) to me so&nbsp;incessantly&nbsp;that I couldn't do any better than compromise to drink only half. &nbsp;Sometimes conversations with shopkeepers would be amusing, sometimes problematic. &nbsp;I never appreciate the request for me to take someone to the US, especially if it's asked over an over again. &nbsp;If someone believes that I can actually do this, no matter how many times I claim that I can't, it just seems like I'm being selfish and lying and I actually do possess some secret power to admit people to the US and afford their plane tickets. &nbsp;Something else that ended up inching me higher and higher up the&nbsp;irritability&nbsp;scale was how people would sometimes communicate with a major lack of specificity. &nbsp;You'd see this a lot when people would ask questions. &nbsp;For instance, I could be walking down the street and someone might shout "Where!" in my direction. &nbsp;This might be the basis for several different possible questions I can think of, including "Where are you from?" "Where are you going?" and "Where have you been?" &nbsp;Although I usually don't respond to people to shout in my direction (like that one old man who would shout "Bangla!" at me whenever I'd pass him...I never really figured out what he was trying to say), even if I were to respond, do you expect me to take a guess as to what you're asking, or shall I try to figure it out by asking you back another? &nbsp;A similar situation I remember when I was coming out of the cow pen and Sumon scurried up to me and said "vegetables!" &nbsp;Are you asking for my opinion, or perhaps voicing the lunch menu? &nbsp;Usually I'd just take the snooty teacher route and in such cases reply with "well, what's you're&nbsp;<i>question</i>?" &nbsp;Oh, and another thing, I hate it when kids scramble around me and shout "what's your name?!" and "how are you?!" or even mimic the entire possible exchange by saying "Hello, what's your name? how are you? I'm fine!" in one long memorized string. &nbsp;Does this aversion make me a bad foreigner, or perhaps a bad English teacher? &nbsp;I'm annoyed because they'll say it over and over and over again, and even if I reply, they'll keep asking, as if they like the sound of their own voices. &nbsp;Much of the time, if you try to respond to their calls by engaging them in an actual conversation, not in English, in Bangla, they'll simply remain silent. &nbsp;Then maybe I'll be like "why did you ask me these questions if you don't want to talk with me?" &nbsp;Then more silence and then I'll bubble on the inside and stomp away in an air of frustration. &nbsp;I remember once being mortified when many many years ago I tried to practice my beginning Spanish with a Spanish speaker by asking a question and not&nbsp;understanding&nbsp;their response. &nbsp;I hope I wasn't doing the same to them when I would make such pleasantries so tense and critical. &nbsp;Needless to say, my patience did wear thin due to all these things, and although it's fun to be able to actually speak in Bangla, this next hurdle of remaining level-headed is an even more difficult one than learning to speak in the first place. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was Eid during my time in the village. &nbsp;I don't like Eid. &nbsp;It combines my least favorite parts of both Thanksgiving and Christmas by being focused on slaughtering cows and buying lots of gifts (especially clothing) for family members (well we eat turkey, not beef, but you get the idea). &nbsp;Perhaps I shouldn't be so critical, but I'm not fond of mass killings and I'm not fond of focusing on purchases, as if buying things really is the key to a happy occasion. &nbsp;Consumption is what this holiday is all about. &nbsp;Well, and family gathering and time off to relax too. &nbsp;The Hindus also had their Durga Puja during about the same time. &nbsp;Colorful displays of long-haired gods were set up in bamboo-propped scenery. &nbsp;It didn't take long for me to lose interest as the whole crowd of people stood&nbsp;mesmerized watching the children dance around in circles in front of the scenery to energetic bell jingles and drum beats. &nbsp;The incense brought back memories though, and the massively intense use of way more than enough lasers to amplify the experience was wowing. &nbsp;In general I try to stay away from religious events, mainly because it's another perfect opportunity for Bangladeshis to try to service my experience in an attempt to give me the time of my life. &nbsp;I'd rather just watch than be the center of attention. &nbsp;It's funny for me to notice all these complaints come up. &nbsp;I never had so many when I first started traveling. &nbsp;Perhaps this is what it means to be jaded. &nbsp;So for Eid we ended up buying a cow from the market place in Feni. &nbsp;Forty-five thousand taka: $540. &nbsp;Those cow bazars crop up everywhere, even in the roads, and congest things even more than the worst traffic jams. &nbsp;We had to walk that cow back to the house, which took several hours. &nbsp;The whole time on the way back, people who would notice us in shops and stuff would shout "how much??" intent on finding out how much we paid. &nbsp;This sort of behavior is excitedly rampant during the cow commerce at Eid, but in general is rather ever-present, as most any random Bangladeshi who you might be speaking with will likely not only be interested in what you've bought, but how much you've paid for it. &nbsp;I think it's along the same sort of lines that I talked about before when we think of buying things as a game. &nbsp;How low can you go? &nbsp;I remember walking back to my house with a jackfruit in my hands last summer. &nbsp;Every two minutes, another person in the street would inquire its price. &nbsp;Whatever the reason, it's surely a good way to keep up to speed on the season's prices as they fluctuate. &nbsp;So we bought a cow and also sold a cow at another bazaar. &nbsp;We waited there the better part of the day, and our asking price of 60,000 taka eventually was reduced to a comparatively meager 36,000. &nbsp;Most of that time I would go just out of the bazaar to where I could collect green grass for our one to eat. &nbsp;A last meal sort of thing. &nbsp;When you gaze upon the vastness of a cow bazaar, you can get a grip on just how many animals are going to be killed for this event. &nbsp;There must have been thousands, just in that small town. &nbsp;I wondered what others thought about when the cows tried to fornicate, which happened waaaay much more than I expected. &nbsp;Well, I hadn't expected it at all; they are all males. &nbsp;You could visibly see the exchange take place, one cow moving its rear in the face of another, the second jumping on the first, both appearing visibly frustrated and upset when they were shouted at, whipped with sticks or rope, and forced apart. &nbsp;What would a Muslim think of such behavior occurring in the wild? &nbsp;I hadn't thought about that one before. &nbsp;It seemed that for the most part they would laugh it off. &nbsp;The cow bazaar day ended up being a good one; we'd get tea every so often, we'd all chat as we waited for another prospective buyer to stop by, I'd argue with the children as to whether or not a cow would drink tea, I'd meander off and pick grass, the late afternoon sun through the trees and leaves and straw on the ground reminded me of fall, almost as if we were at a pumpkin patch. &nbsp;Sunil and I walked back as night fell. &nbsp;I'd ask what the lightening bugs were called and he'd go off on some monologue about something I couldn't understand, but I could tell it was something positive, so I agreed and smiled and giggled, then he'd talk more. &nbsp;Then I'd ask about the fog, and the same thing would happen. &nbsp;I loved the fog, cooling everything way down, and dissolving the far-reaching rice paddies into white in the distance. &nbsp;Maybe by the time we reached home we also talked about the moon cycles, what we eat for lunch, his room rent, and my thoughts about Halloween.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For Eid day itself, I was not at 100%. &nbsp;In defiance, I decided to fast the whole day and hastily mentioned my dislike of animal slaughter (especially halal slaughter where the animal's neck is slicked open and left to bleed to death rather than killed outright by beheading) to anyone that came up to me and brought up the holiday. &nbsp;As I was cutting straw that morning, I couldn't figure out whether or not to watch the slaughter take place. &nbsp;Maybe if I were the cow, I would want another to witness my pain. &nbsp;Then again, if the others saw me watching, they might think I was enjoying myself and supporting the event like they were. &nbsp;Sunil, a Hindu, wasn't going to watch, so I wasn't either. &nbsp;We went to a tea stall and waited it out. &nbsp;Everyone in the area started the morning with a massive prayer at the mosque, then proceeded in their killing at around 9-10 am. &nbsp;As we were off to get tea, I glimpsed a victim through the trees. &nbsp;It was on its side in a pool of blood and an alien gasping sound struggled out of the gash in its neck. &nbsp;I hated this. &nbsp;At the tea stall, I was visibly downtrodden as well as angry, and I didn't really recover for the next day and a half or two. &nbsp;This was not my comfort zone. &nbsp;Despite how many cows were killed, the morning was relatively silent, and you couldn't hear&nbsp;desperate&nbsp;mooing or struggle. &nbsp;Sumon brought me lunch (vegetables) but I said I wouldn't eat. &nbsp;He continued to badger me about it until I said that I was fasting. &nbsp;His eyes widened. &nbsp;"Ooooh, wow...good for you!!" &nbsp;He put his hands together in praise. &nbsp;Fasting during Ramadan is a key component of Islam, and the fact that I was fasting then was therefore an act of piousness instead of defiance. &nbsp;With great interest, he took my food away and asked me lots of questions about whether or not I was drinking water or tea, whether or not I could eat paan leaf and betel nut for energy, and when I would break the fast. &nbsp;By that evening, everyone in the area seemed to be aware that I was fasting, even the kids at the pond. &nbsp;The next morning, he and the nephews anxiously awaited 10 am when I would eat again. &nbsp;They had bought me a new jar orange jam, which they referred to as orange gel. &nbsp;A nephew actually tried to give it to me the night before through my window. &nbsp;I think they're used to breaking fasts with something sweet, maybe for energy. &nbsp;I didn't have any; I didn't want to attract ants, I had nothing to eat it with, I wasn't really interested in the first place, and hey, my waywardly defiant mood was still as strong as it gets. &nbsp;Whenever Sumon would offer to treat me to tea or say that food was ready, if I was cutting straw, I'd say that I'd come later. &nbsp;Once, he had cut up a jambura fruit from a tree for me and Sunil to share. &nbsp;Jambura is very similar to grapefruit, but it's a bit bigger. &nbsp;It took him several beckons before I finally relented and stepped out of the cow pen. &nbsp;In my mind, I remember the storm of negativity..."I don't even like this fruit, and how do you expect me to eat an entire half...an entire half is<i>&nbsp;huge</i>...I'm so tired of following along with your misguided thoughts about what I would like.." &nbsp;(This would be a good time to reaffirm that although my experience in Bangladesh has brought beautiful things to me, it has indeed also brought out my worst sides.) &nbsp;Those fumes clouding my mentality slackened after a few bites. &nbsp;I ate the whole half, as well as a portion of Sunil's. &nbsp;I remember becoming captivated by the fruit, its refreshing crisp taste (especially after having been working with the dry straw, it's appealing vibrant pink shades of color. &nbsp;Looking up from my sticky fingers, I realized that that was one of the most comforting culinary experiences I've had in a long time. &nbsp;I stood for a moment, puzzled. &nbsp;Why had I been so pessimistic about this fruit? &nbsp;For the rest of my stay, I'd be slyly hinting at people that I'd love it if they could cut me up a jambura to eat. &nbsp;Interestingly, they wouldn't consider jambura a possibility to eat during the late afternoon and evening, so I'd ask in the late morning. &nbsp;Once, I felt so tempted to get another fix of jambura, that I went about picking one of my own from a tree. &nbsp;I asked Sunil where I might find one in arm's reach, and he pointed to one that was hanging out a bit over the pond. &nbsp;Licking my lips, I climbed a bit up the tree, held on with one hand, and dangled most of my body out over the pond to just barely reach a jambura, wrap my hand around it, and pluck it from its stem like a monkey. &nbsp;Sunil and I started cutting it with a grass knife when Sumon&nbsp;hurriedly came over and said something both urgent and&nbsp;reprimanding to Sunil. &nbsp;I asked what the matter was, and Sumon turned to me with that intent gaze, his eyes wide. &nbsp;"That is grandmother's jambura tree, and grandmother is crazy. &nbsp;She has a very bad temper, and she will be very, very angry." &nbsp;The part of me that was like "Oh, pleease, it's just a fruit" was much louder than the part that repented "What have we done?! &nbsp;What will grandmother do now that we have picked her precious grapefruit without permission??" &nbsp;Sumon started glancing around, saying that he would come up with a story that might get us out of trouble. &nbsp;Grandmother must have been very, very hot-headed. &nbsp;I think our alibi was that it fell off the tree of it's own will and we fished it out of the water and I unknowingly ate it instead of giving it to grandmother. &nbsp;I don't think anything actually came of it though. &nbsp;Grandmother stayed in the house. &nbsp;She wouldn't have known that one of her forbidden fruit was picked from her tree. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Christine was fond of jambura too. &nbsp;She was another American staying there with me also through the WWOOFing program. &nbsp;She was supposed to have gotten there about when I did, but poor organization on the part of the office in Dhaka had rendered her a few days late. &nbsp;I had just had a conversation with Sumon a day or two before she came about how even though so many people suspect that a foreigner will not be able to tolerate the food in Bangladesh because of its spice, lack of palatability is just as likely, if not more likely, to be caused by the high amount of oil they use when they cook. &nbsp;I've heard that complaint from my friends at least as much as anything having to do with spice. &nbsp;Bangladeshi food actually is not that spicy. &nbsp;You know that presupposition that I as a Westerner cannot tolerate spice really grinds my gears. &nbsp;There is a&nbsp;subtle&nbsp;implication of weakness involved. &nbsp;It is very different for someone (perhaps a Bangladeshi) to go somewhere else (say the West) and dislike the food because it's bland and boring than for someone (say a Westerner) to go to a place (Bangladesh) and dislike the food there because it gives them pain. &nbsp;In public, I try to eat green chilies very visibly with my food if I'm in the mood to counter this idea. &nbsp;In any case, it's confusing why no Bangladeshi has brought up this difference of oil content when so many of my western friends have. &nbsp;I don't know if Sumon really understood or not, but lo and behold, Christine shows up, and when I offer her a fried doughnut hole-like&nbsp;morsel&nbsp;from the tea stall, she declines because there is too much oil involved. &nbsp;HA! &nbsp;She said that once she threw up in Romania because they were cooking with too much oil. &nbsp;I was eager to share this news with Sumon to prove my point. &nbsp;Christine is a very interesting women. &nbsp;Having semi-retired from the restaurant business (at an age between my mother and grandmother's), she has traveled the world WWOOFing and offering service/aid in various countries. &nbsp;She told me stories about how she was aiding disaster relief in Thailand after the tsunami came. &nbsp;She also told me about how she had been farming in places like Nepal and throughout Europe. &nbsp;It was so comforting to have a character like her in the midst of the village, another who was just as intent on working as I was and someone to bounce ideas off of about our experiences. &nbsp;She stayed in the house because she was a woman. &nbsp;She told me I was lucky to be living out of the house; so many people would come into her room and look through her things and such, that sort of experience service and lack of privacy that I was so familiar with. &nbsp;They probably expected certain things about her that weren't true too; she had told me when she first came that she was afraid they wouldn't give her any actual work to do because she was a woman, and she didn't want to have all this way just to look after small children or cook. &nbsp;I told one of the nephews about how we need to figure out what work she can do, and he said rather matter-of-factly, "Oh, don't worry, there's a baby in the house." &nbsp;I chuckled..."That is exactly what she does NOT want to be responsible for!" &nbsp;They soon got the point and told her she could to weed if she wanted. &nbsp;After I left I'm sure she took up straw cutting. &nbsp;Maybe she'll also get to do odd jobs like I had gotten to do too, like going with Sunil to cut grass with a knife in the rice paddy for the cows or moving wood around so it can dry in the sunlight. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Christine may have claimed that it was better for me to be out with the cows, but that environment did have it's downsides. &nbsp;One night, Sunil had separated one of the mothers from her calf so it wouldn't drink all her milk and we could get some the next day. &nbsp;Not a good idea. &nbsp;When she wants to nurse, you know it. &nbsp;The mooing. &nbsp;The mooing. &nbsp;She does that too during the day when her calf is outside and she wants to nurse. &nbsp;The mooing was actually incredibly loud, especially when you're that close to it. &nbsp;It's as annoying as a baby's incessant cry, something that tells you that you&nbsp;<i>have</i>&nbsp;to do something to fix this situation&nbsp;<i>now</i>. &nbsp;It was about 11:30 pm. &nbsp;I hollered at her to stop a few times, and she'd quiet down a little, but the start right back up again. &nbsp;I was curled up in my clean bed and the last thing I wanted to do was fully wake up, open my carefully-tucked mosquito net, and go stomping around in cow dung to try to fix the situation. &nbsp;My hopes were irrelevant, and my hollering eventually did nothing to calm her down. &nbsp;The mooing grew in volume and frequency until I blew up in a frenzy, hastily exploded out of bed, threw on my sandals, and stampeded into the cow pen, practically falling on my face from slipping and sliding around in shit. &nbsp;I spotted her in the far corner with my cell phone light and charged over there. &nbsp;Her mooing continued. &nbsp;Falling over myself, I reached her, wound up, and in boiling frustration smacked her on the bottom part of her back as hard as I could. &nbsp;I had seen Sunil do that (less fervently of course) when he wanted them to get out of the way or stop misbehaving or something. &nbsp;My hand stung. &nbsp;Seemingly&nbsp;prompted to amplify her proclamations of disease, her mooing grew even louder. &nbsp;Freaking out, I fumed over to the tin that was tied up to separate the two of them and clawed at the rope that was propping it up until it moved enough for the calf to get through. &nbsp;Once that was finished, so was the mooing. &nbsp;She may have not given as much milk the next day, but at least I got to sleep after that. &nbsp;It took me a number of minutes to cool myself down after that. &nbsp;Trigger-happy vehicle drivers on the roads of Dhaka, beware. &nbsp;You see what happens. &nbsp;If you shove loud noises into my space with your horn-blowing, you run the risk of me attacking you. &nbsp;Do not suffer from the same fate that Betsy did. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In another more positive but equally unconventional instance, Sunil shows up at my door around midnight and asks to be let in to see the cows. &nbsp;He turns to me and says that one of them will give birth tonight and asks if there is enough space on my bed for two people so he could be here when she delivers. &nbsp;How he knew was beyond me. &nbsp;I figured we would have heard signs of the mothers discomfort before the delivery, but nope, just some grunting and a wet thud as the calf spilled out at about 4 am. &nbsp;The mother continued to grunt as she licked her new-born. &nbsp;By the light of cell phone, Sunil initiated the calf by pinching off the soft bottoms of his hoofs so he'd be able to stand, tying some straw around his head and through his mouth (I asked him about this and I think he said that the calf needed to get the taste of straw or something), and blowing in his ears (I guess to clear them out). &nbsp;Within about 2 hours, the calf was able to stand a bit and stumbling around. &nbsp;Sunil had to work pretty hard to get it to nurse, but by the next day it was no issue. &nbsp;I was surprised at how painless and quick the whole process was. &nbsp;Suddenly the next day, there you go, a new cow. &nbsp;The mother's placenta fell out the next morning in a heap on the floor. &nbsp;She started eating it, and I was totally unaware of what to do, so I sort of turned a blind eye. &nbsp;After a few moments, Sunil noticed and rushed over to her, hollering. &nbsp;He took it away and scooped it up in the poop basket. &nbsp;The bloody gooey mess filled most of it. &nbsp;I wondered what he'd do with it. &nbsp;I guess I was expecting something a bit more unique (I don't know, stem cell research, make a shampoo, something) than burying it in the mound of dung behind the pen, but hey, he's the expert. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3443277931011789223" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3443277931011789223" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fi2Jd4yK_Q/UJUTJfkOfgI/AAAAAAAAADc/ovzUi8K50M4/s1600/804_1344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2fi2Jd4yK_Q/UJUTJfkOfgI/AAAAAAAAADc/ovzUi8K50M4/s320/804_1344.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, with a sore but satisfied body, I return to Dhaka. &nbsp;Perhaps I'll go back when it's rice harvesting time. &nbsp; No matter how busy I would be with harvesting rice, and even if it's just for a weekend, I'm sure I'd find a few moments to at least relive the familiar straw cutting, a refreshing pond swim, and another relaxing evening walk through the winding moonlit foggy path to the town where I will practice yet again in conversation with others the virtue of patience. &nbsp;Skills like that take time and effort, at least as much devotion as cows require. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O-7QsJLvKk/UJUTbYHFXbI/AAAAAAAAADs/TlH28n7WxgI/s1600/804_1361.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O-7QsJLvKk/UJUTbYHFXbI/AAAAAAAAADs/TlH28n7WxgI/s320/804_1361.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E7QZYaQRpF4/UJUTqgPhi5I/AAAAAAAAAD0/DidST7XR47c/s1600/804_1364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E7QZYaQRpF4/UJUTqgPhi5I/AAAAAAAAAD0/DidST7XR47c/s320/804_1364.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><!--EndFragment--><br /><br /></div><!--EndFragment--></div></div>Matt Balabanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553246310159327814noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-13734936128990174872012-10-12T12:16:00.002+05:302012-11-03T19:18:40.154+05:30Foreigner, or not? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Despite how you'd think it's obvious that I'm from the West, I'm continually baffled at how frequently that assumption is not shared by those that I'll encounter here. &nbsp;Yesterday, while riding the bus to school (having jumped on after asking quickly in Bangla where it was going), the ticket collector asked if I was Bengali. &nbsp;But not in a "yes/no" style, in a way that was like a confirmation of his idea that I actually <i>was, </i>as in "So, you're Bengali, right?" &nbsp;I often wonder how people perceive me as I go about my business here. &nbsp;It's easy to assume someone is a foreigner if they are wide-eyed and confused-looking and smiling all the time and just appear awkward and out of place. &nbsp;But by now I'm so familiar with the Bangla I use all the time, Mohammadpur, and my routine transportation routes that I imagine I wear a face that's pretty similar to others'. &nbsp;If you (being white) get on a leguna (mini-bus) and appear astonished and are looking around, others will giggle and start asking you the routine questions, as well as fit in a warm welcome to "our country." &nbsp;If I am behaving like others, no one says a word. &nbsp;That might mean it seems that I'm less interested in conversation, so they don't start one. &nbsp;It may also mean that despite my appearance, the question about whether or not I am a foreigner becomes difficult to answer, and others may not want to risk insulting me if I were actually an albino Bangladeshi (which you do see from time to time). &nbsp;It's quite interesting how life changes when you grow accustomed to a place. &nbsp;Whatever the case is, the fact remains that people guess that I'm from places I wouldn't have imagined are possibilities. &nbsp;Does that mean I seem more local when they ask if I'm Bangladeshi? &nbsp;Or maybe does that mean that people run into foreigners so infrequently, their idea about them is so minute that you get the unexpected questions like "So, are you from China or Japan?" &nbsp;The slum children who are&nbsp;rambunctious&nbsp;enough to toy with me will run up from time to time and obnoxiously bellow "Ching Chong Ching Chong!" in the most mocking way. &nbsp;I usually freak out at them for that. &nbsp;Not good moments for me. &nbsp;They're obviously imitating the Chinese language when they do this. &nbsp;Is that because they think I'm Chinese, or (perhaps more likely) they just think that this is the strange sound of a foreign language and because I'm a&nbsp;foreigner it must therefore be the language I speak. &nbsp;Most of the time though they probably do have the assumption that I speak English, but the&nbsp;imitation is no less irritating: "I'm fine! Aeem faeen! Um piiiine!!!" (combine all three and you probably get the idea of what they are saying). &nbsp;So then yesterday when I was at a restaurant eating lunch, the person at the table next to mine asks if I'm Iranian. &nbsp;Then the waiter asks if I'm Japanese. &nbsp;Then when I'm walking home that evening, three excitedly curious kids run up to me while I'm snacking on street food and one asks if I speak English. &nbsp;I smile, sort of thinking it might be a joke, and then he intently asks again. &nbsp;I say "Hae"(yes), and he turns to his friend and in Bangla says "See! &nbsp;I told you!" Perhaps it's all a&nbsp;manifestation&nbsp;of struggling to figure out a puzzling addition to their community. &nbsp;Sort of pioneering, isn't it?&nbsp;</div>Matt Balabanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553246310159327814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-79309331547629876332012-09-19T20:28:00.000+05:302012-09-19T20:35:32.469+05:30A Return to Mohammadpur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">One of the most fun experiences about returning <i>back </i>to a foreign country is the moment you start talking to the taxi drivers after exiting the airport. &nbsp;After a familiar US context for a month, a familiar Bangladeshi context, you then realize, is a unique thing to also be familiar with. &nbsp;Which place are you going to? &nbsp;How much will you pay? &nbsp;Bangla comes out. &nbsp;You know the place, what the price should be. &nbsp;You open a paint-chipped car door and sit in the small interior, maybe missing the inside paneling, maybe with a small single light bulb dangling in the middle. &nbsp;You grin, because at that time, like a whoosh, you're back. <br /><br />The apartment I just moved to sits on the roof of a 7 story apartment building. &nbsp;No lift (and by 'lift' I mean elevator) but yes daily exercise. &nbsp;The floor is concrete; it's harder to clean than the tile from the last place I lived, maybe because of the few places it's chipping. &nbsp;No worries, the apartment owner says it will be fixed, along with the broken bathroom lock, but then again, it's probably more likely that we forget to pester him about it again. &nbsp;Three sky blue blue painted rooms open into a small common space large enough to keep your shoes. &nbsp;There's a kitchen, a quaint one, but the concrete counter is only just big enough to fit the burner, so I tend to chop vegetables on the 5 inch wide rim of the sink, which is an area of the floor in the corner. &nbsp;The water from the sink in the bathroom flows down a tube and opens up onto the floor, an informal drainage setup that I've certainly witnessed before but never lived with. &nbsp;The shower water flows out with it through a small hole at the base of the wall, and soapy water runs through a funny little canal just outside that crosses through the entry way leading to the front door. &nbsp;Instead of heading to the stairwell by hopping over the canal (you could call it a three inch wide moat), you could make a left and walk along it, just past the bathroom hole, and climb a 1.5 foot wide stairway to the rooftop of the apartment next door to us. &nbsp;On top of that roof top (which itself is above the portion of the roof on which our apartment is built) is another even slimmer stairway up to the top of the square concrete water tank that supplies the building. &nbsp;There is an incredible view from there. &nbsp;Although there really isn't space to dry laundry, I've been using the roof of the adjacent building with a nice wide open roof top that is tangent to ours and only slightly higher. &nbsp;While up there hopping rooftops, you'll see that the roof of our apartment is tin, mostly rusty. &nbsp;Avoid touching it when the sun is out, it gets very, very hot. &nbsp;Inside the apartment there is a thin wooden sheet in most rooms that rests just under the tin, so that space fortunately traps heat. &nbsp;When the power goes out, taking the fans with it, it can get a bit sweaty, but not as nearly as bad as it would be during the summer. &nbsp;Rainy season has been bringing rain just about every day, and especially when it rains at night, it cools down so much that the other day I used, for the first time this year, our heavy blanket in addition to my usual bed sheet. &nbsp;Tiktikees (geckos) the size of small lizards occasionally are spotted on our sky blue concrete walls. &nbsp;If you go up close to them, they'll scurry away back to their roof space or behind my bamboo shelves. &nbsp;Don't leave food out because the ants will crowd in, but fortunately they cause no other harm, and of course the tiktikees do need something to eat; their usual mosquito fare is happily absent in this place, maybe because we are up so high, able to peer out over the blocky grey Mohammadpur rooftop horizon line. &nbsp;The ants are one thing if they get in your food, but the rat I saw the other day would be even more unwelcome. &nbsp;I'm not sure where he lives, but my guess is that he spends most of his time away since our apartment is small and I've only seen him once. &nbsp;As you leave the apartment, don't bolt the metal door shut because we wouldn't be able to open it from the inside, just leave it ajar. &nbsp;You can lock the next metal door you come to (the one just after you step over our thin bathroom water moat) which you'll go through to get to the stairwell. &nbsp;When you slide the bolt open, don't worry about how much noise it causes, everyone is used to those metal doors doing that. &nbsp;Go ahead and close the lock on the door's bolt in the stairwell that's behind you as you leave, we can still get to it with a key to get out, we just have to reach around through the broken window that's right next to it. &nbsp;The next door you'll come to is down 7 flights of stairs, don't trip when you're going down the ones on the second floor, they are each noticeably less high than the others. &nbsp;Close the door leading onto the road behind you; it will lock, but don't worry because you should be able to get back in if you need to by reaching through the small hole for the doorbell and stretching your arm as far as it can possibly go all the way to the handle on the inside. &nbsp;You'll want to come back. &nbsp;I know, I know... we wanted to search for another option when we first moved in too, but I guarantee it will grow on you. &nbsp;It's been 3 weeks, and now I'd have to say it's the coolest and most distinctive place I've ever lived.<br /><br />Perhaps familiarity comes not only in the form of a familiar language or a familiar location, but with familiar people. &nbsp;Those moments are the ones that make you smile the most. &nbsp;I was walking back from school today and caught sight of a familiar face walking the other way. &nbsp;Although I didn't immediately recognize him, he stopped, smiled, and said that he got new bananas today and asked if I wanted some. I usually buy from him on the way back from school because he carries the variety I like (one of the two main smaller varieties, not the sweet one that gets brown quick, the other one). &nbsp;He may have been going to visit a friend or go to pray, but we walked back with me to his small cart-stall 50 feet ahead. &nbsp;He knew just which batch I wanted, the batch of 8 hanging right in the front. &nbsp;I carried them, dangling from a small rope loop, along with my net bag of eggplant and red spinach that I had just bought. &nbsp;In my other hand was my trusty blue nalgene that I carry everywhere, having just been filled to the brim with water from school (the water at home has lots of residue in it, better suited for something else like washing dishes and clothes). &nbsp;It wasn't quite rush hour yet, so it was fortunately still possible for me to find space on the compact mini bus that seats only 12 on two benches facing each other. &nbsp;It's the most frequently run transportation from Farmgate back to Mohammadpur. &nbsp;An empty one pulled up to the place they usually stop at next to the Farmgate fruit market. &nbsp;I wasn't feeling pushy, so I let the eager riders dart their way in for a seat as I said hi to a kid that I recognized from before. &nbsp;Despite his young age, maybe about 11?, he's a fare collector for the mini busses. &nbsp;They ride along standing on the step at the back, one arm gripped around a metal bar supporting the roof while clutching the fares, the other hand pounding the metal roof to let the driver know when to let people off or collecting the red 10 taka notes from passengers as they decide to reach into their pant pocketed wallets. &nbsp;As I waited for people to shove their way in, it was the boy actually who came up to me first to ask how I was doing. &nbsp;I was happy to see his grungy toothy face again. &nbsp;The tempo (as it's called) filled up with its 12 passengers, but no worries, I still got on by standing on the metal stair at the back, arm dutifully clutching the bar supporting the roof (especially as we'd go over the speed bumps in front of the parliament building) and eyes peering ahead over the top of the yellow weathered tempo roof. &nbsp;As we waited in traffic, a bus-full of people stared at me with smiles; it was quite a site to see a foreigner, let alone one who was riding the tempo from the fare collector step. &nbsp;After I hopped off in Mohammadpur and started walking up Noor Jahan Road to the apartment. &nbsp;I heard a greeting to my right from someone standing in a refrigerator shop doorway. &nbsp;He had a bright smile on his face as he came up to me to shake my hand. &nbsp;I wasn't wearing the same look of recognition that he was. &nbsp;"Don't you remember?" he said in Bangla. &nbsp;After I shook my head he took his cell phone out. &nbsp;I chuckled as I realized he was searching for a picture that he had taken on his phone of me and him. &nbsp;Sure enough, there we both were. &nbsp;My hair was much longer and I was wearing a shirt that I haven't worn in a long time (it's probably actually back in my room in the US). &nbsp;Nicholas and I had bought our fridge from him nearly 2 years ago when we were first moving in before I had started my time at St. Joseph's. &nbsp;I guess his memory was sharper than mine, or at least my face is more recognizable being foreign, or perhaps he had occasionally refreshed his memory by glancing at his picture of us from time to time as he would show it to his friends. &nbsp;Before I headed home, I stopped at a road-side cart selling fuchka, thin hollow golf ball shaped chips with chickpea paste stuffed in and sprinkled with a variety of deliciousness, including chili, cilantro, egg shavings (I think that's what those things are), and a tart tamarind sauce. &nbsp;After hiking up to the apartment, my shoulders shrugged to see that we were out of rice. &nbsp;I had planned to cook while listening to an NPR/TED Talks Podcast from my computer iTunes as I had the past 3 days. &nbsp;Such captivating interviews and talks! &nbsp;The perfect background as I go about my chopping, washing, sizzling, and stirring. &nbsp;I'm sure the modest kitchen hasn't seen such a heady addition before, but there's no better way to unwind as the daylight fades away and the warm glow from the single incandescent light bulb takes over. &nbsp;You can glimpse out the window across the Mohammadpur rooftops, listen to the evening calls to prayer, and study the patterns of the paths the ants walk in on the sky blue kitchen wall as you feast on rice with fried eggplant and cooked spinach with potato, all the while pondering TEDs cognitive inputs about where creativity comes from or the future of cities or Eric Whitacre's digital choir or recent Harvard psychological studies. &nbsp;Yes, that's what I'll do. &nbsp;After I go back down to Noor Jahan Road to get rice. &nbsp;We need yogurt for tomorrow morning too anyway. &nbsp;Then I'll try to make it an early night; tomorrow I'd like to wake up early again with the first call to prayer to do yoga on the water tank rooftop and to gaze across the city as the sun rises.&nbsp;</div>Matt Balabanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553246310159327814noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-59000533313937906642012-03-05T16:49:00.002+05:302012-03-05T17:18:36.245+05:30Traveling Back to Bangladesh<p class="p1">After a difficult goodbye at the security queue in Pittsburgh airport, I gave a few people a call while I was still in the country. Christy Sommers, a good Fulbright friend from last year in Bangladesh, was in Boulder working at the head office for "<a href="http://www.wheretherebedragons.com/">Where There Be Dragons</a>," a program that takes high school students abroad. On the horizon for her are her marriage in July and working in Africa. Aunt Karin was on the way to go skiing; I asked her to thank my cousins for texting me goodbye. To some others I left messages on voicemails. Another call to Mom to say the plane was boarding on time (although Delta had delayed it over the course of 2 months about 3 times). Feeling a bit empty, and much more mixed than I would have anticipated, I was on the plane to New York, my port of exit. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">A few others were going to Amsterdam fortunately, so we hurried together through the corridors and bus ride to the KLM gate. With only an hour layover there, I wondered if my checked bag would be able to make the plane, especially if I - with legs for jogging - had trouble. Shortly after sitting down at the back of the Boeing 777, we were off to Europe. I have always been trying to chose to sit in the back of planes if possible. That way you can see so much in front of you, you can chat with the stewards and stewardesses more easily, and if there is a screaming baby (ah, so inappropriate for long plane rides), it will be in front of you, not right behind. The woman in the airplane safety video made me smile; I remembered how deliberately and sincerely she spoke on my KLM flights over to the US in December. "It is not allowed to block the aisles…" There's something funny about that English. Understandable, but uncommon. "We ask you not to stand until…" Hmm, would it be preferable to say "We ask you <b>to</b> not stand until…?" Not sure, interesting. KLM is great; they're the oldest commercial airline but also the most environmentally-conscious globally, investing in biofuel research extracted from algae. For some reason I didn't think that biofuels would work in jet engines. Why isn't everyone doing this? And the algae absorb CO2 in the process - a sustainable way of recycling the emissions during flight. And they recycle. I haven't heard of other airlines going through the trouble to separate glass and plastics onboard. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">My row of 4 seats was empty, so I took advantage of the space by laying down and stretching out. Fortunately, I was able to sleep a good amount. I don't remember what food was served. Flying felt so familiar; it certainly wasn't new and exciting like it had been before. Looking around the cabin…yep, here I am again. I watched the Halloween episode of Modern Family on the screen, but had already seen it twice coming over in December. It was still funny. I started Pirates of the Caribbean 4 but lost interest. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">It was in Schipol Airport in Amsterdam that a good deal of excitement emerged. I remembered walking through there in December with its Christmas decorations. Did the automated, recorded voice at the end of the mechanized walkway say "Mind your own step?" That's interesting. Hmm, this place is huge! And look, a meditation room. Eh, I'm not so interested in the 3.5 euro commission fee to exchange dollars for euros, but I need to pay for the train into the city. Schipol is just…other-worldly, with all of it's lights and directions and mechanized this and that. Found the ticket booth, found the platform…WOW the train has two stories! And 16 minutes later I was at Amsterdam Centraal. I wondered where my checked bag was. First a layover practically too quick to work, then a loooong layover of 24 hours. We'd see if it showed up in Delhi the next day. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">Just outside of the train station was the tram stop I needed to take to get to Westermarkt. I wasn't so good at figuring out how to use the tram, but in a few moments the women in the ticket booth INSIDE the tram helped me figure it out. Those things are so cool, whizzing around everywhere, amongst the cars, with big windows you can see everyone sitting inside through. And an electronic ding-dong bell that mimicked what the trams must have sounded like. The massive churches, brick sidewalks, quaint multistories crammed side by side, trendy juice shops, pubs that looked like antiques…It was hard to believe how little time had passed between home and this. Ah! The Dam. I remembered cycling there years ago to hear an organ concert. And then Westermarket. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">I stepped off the tram to see Sebastiaan ("bas"), the couch surfer I had arranged to stay with, coming towards me. Even with all the unpredictability of how and when I would get to the market square, I guess our meeting time of 1:30 was perfect because we both arrived at the same time. He is a medical student, from Holland, my age, and still busy assembling his thesis from college on human geography. His apartment was for one, but had a nice couch I was happy to stay on. The steps in the apartment stairwell were the tiniest, thinest, steepest things I've seen, taking up practically no space at all to ascend from one level down to one level up. The door knobs didn't turn. All the door knobs there didn't, they were just for pulling, not turning. Europe is western, but certainly unique from the US.</p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">Shortly after I put my stuff down in the apartment, we went out to the Saturday open-air market. I had a beaming smile on my face the whole time. "Bas! Look at those cars! they're parked RIGHT along the edge of the canal, and there's NO GUARD RAIL!" *haha, yeah, I never noticed that.* "You know I bet in the US people would sue the government for not making it safe enough" *I've heard people there sue a lot* "I guess so, I mean, even for things like when McDonalds makes their coffee too hot. Don't the cars fall in?" *Hmm, I've heard of it once, but I don't think people are concerned about it.* "EVERYONE'S riding BIKES!" *Yeah! But be careful, they don't like it if you get in their way* "And so much space…is it this empty on the streets always?" *Yeah I think so. Look, there's Albert Heijn, it's the largest grocery supplier in Holland.* It was much smaller than the massive Costcos and Giant Eagles I was coming from, and then over a conversation about organic food and gentrification we arrived at the market. I remembered that Samantha Brown from one of the Travel Channel shows I had watched came here and sampled the cheeses. The stalls were one-by-one lining both sides of the streets making up the market, but it wasn't too crowded to walk through. I thought about getting a cup of the blended wheat grass I saw, but 2.5 euros just for a small shot of it didn't seem worth it. We saw a girl sitting playing this…circular hollow metal drum, where each side struck a different pitch. I remembered that my room mate at the Tushita center in Dharamsala 1.5 years ago had one too that he was lugging across central and south Asia, but never heard it played. It was quite mesmerizing, emitting a soft-edged melody that couldn't quite be minor nor major, but something limbo-like and incredibly soothing. Then Bas got us both a fresh oyster, which I think was my first ever. It tasted like the beach. He continued to get vegetables, and we headed back to the apartment for tea and a pastry he bought at a bakery on the way back. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">After chatting some, I took a nap and he worked on his thesis, and soon enough it was the evening and we headed out for another walk around the area. It was a bit colder than the hoodie I brought could contend with, so Bas gave me one of his jackets. That evening he made a delicious dinner: whole wheat noodles with garlic, oil, and lima beans cooked with bitter orange rind, accompanied with a boiled artichoke head. At least I had contributed dried fruit, a scone, and teddy grahams I had brought for appetizers. And then yogurt with honey and nuts for dessert, what a combination! It was all a taste I was certainly excited to have linger on my palette for as long as possible. I showered in the tiny tiny bathroom so I wouldn't have to worry about it in the morning. In the warmly lit apartment, we had more discussions and watched an episode of Star Trek on my computer (he hadn't seen any yet, but was interested). It was late before I was finally asleep, and early when I woke up. Bidding Bas the best of luck and a heart-felt thank you (and leaving the bag of teddy grahams that he seemed like like quite a bit), I headed out again, this time walking to Amsterdam Centraal, on the brick streets which were very empty at 7:30 am on Sunday. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">On the train, I talked a bit to a Mexican business man, a car head-light seller, who was heading back home. Schipol Airport and the propriety, smiles, and dutch accents of the royal-blue uniformed KLM attendants everywhere put a smile on my face. Mechanized luggage check-in? A big cage would come over the suitcase and it got swept away on the belt. I had never conceived of such a thing. Hmm, I wondered where my bag was and if it would actually get to Delhi. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">The time I had to spare ended up being quite a blessing. Without a care or concern in the world, I approached the KLM check in at the gate. That's right, I remembered now, when I was flying through Schipol back to the US in December, I was struck blind at how strict the process had been to board. Every gate had it's own security battery, with attendants checking every single passenger, interrogating them, where they had been, where they were going, why, a second form of identification please? Let me flip through your passport again. Did anyone else handle you bag? Please confirm, are you *positive* that *no one* has handled your handbag, and that you are aware about every single article inside? And that was before security. Which included some x-ray, or something-ray, device that enclosed you and spun around while you had your arms up. Keep your passport out, you'll get checked again after security at the end of the ramp before you board the plane. I had never seen anything like it. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">So I go up to the lady before security and handed her the passport. I had so little concern for anything not working out as planned that her words didn't quite make sense. *No no, you'll have to go to the embassy.* (It's Sunday) "I'm sorry, what?" *You were stamped into India less than two months ago, they won't let you in.* For some reason, I simply wasn't impressed. Of course they'll let me in. Either they won't notice or they'll forget the rule or I'll distract them by talking in Hindi or I'll beg or I'll show the documents that I'm going to Bangladesh or I'll ask for a transit visa or whatever. *No, I'm sorry, we can't let you board* Oh my. The thought hadn't occurred to me that the KLM/Schipol barrage of security would be the ones to contend with rather than the unpredictable but schmoozable Indian passport stampers. It still didn't make sense. I explained my case, still without much concern, I mean, because well, what the heck do you mean I'm not allowed on the plane I bought a ticket for? A supervisor came over to help. "But you see, I was only in India in December for an hour or so before getting stamped back out; there was no system for me to get my bag and re-check it on the next airline without stamping out of the airport and into the country" *I'm sorry, the stamp still remains on your passport* "But, actually, when I was stamped in to go to baggage claim, it was before 2 months had been up since my <i>previous</i> visit in India; I had just been there in November, and at <i>that</i> time it was no issue to get stamped in in December." *That must have been a mistake, you need to wait 2 months.* "I was unaware this would be an issue; I'm very confident that I'll be able to get into the country no problem." The plan was to stay in Delhi for a day and a night, and ride the train over east to Calcutta, then take a bus to Dhaka from there. It was much cheaper that way than booking flights to Dhaka. </p><p class="p1"><br /></p><p class="p1">This 2 month requirement before re-entry into India started after the 2008 Mumbai attacks in order to prevent rapid movement between India and bordering nations, a tactic which the bombers had employed somehow to smuggle weapons I think. In any case, maybe the rule looks good on paper, but I do believe that if you're planning on attacking a country, you'll find a way to skirt it's security processes that travelers contend with...by, for instance, going across the border <i>anywhere else</i>. Perhaps this rule might inconvenience would-be terrorists, but one thing is for <i>sure</i>, many a traveler has had quite the bout with this new visa-stamp legislation. Sometimes it's no issue, and evidently, sometimes it definitely, definitely is. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">The supervisor with me never seemed confronting in the slightest, and although the situation seemed like it should be a bit dire, I also wasn't confronting or upset, just explaining my case. Another supervisor came. He was very matter-of-fact and explained that it would be impossible for me to board the plane for India because of my stamp from December, even if it was just because I needed to collect and re-check my bag and even if I had entered the country before 2 months had been up in the past (which <i>had</i> actually happened twice). He explained that I would be sent back and that the airline would get fined $5,000. I hadn't heard of such a thing, but KLM knew their rules, probably much better than India knew them anyway. There was no argument. I was not boarding the plane as matters stood. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">But he was incredibly helpful, taking me to a booking service center while he explained the situation. He explained things to the woman at the glass desk there. Her expression was incredibly empathetic, and very aware and understanding, as if this had happened before. She looked at me and with concerned eyes said again "Yes, you see, because of your stamp in December you can't enter the country now; it hasn't been 2 months yet, the airline will get a major fine." I completely acquiesced; there was no defying this. We schemed up options, including flying to the middle east instead, getting another flight, etc. This didn't seem like anything cheap. But I loved how it totally felt like she was on my side, her undivided attention trying to think up a solution. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">It was a good thing I was ultimately heading to Dhaka rather than India. If it were India, well, I simply wouldn't have been able to go. But the woman at the desk found flights from Delhi to Dhaka the day after I would arrive, claiming it might be the best option to get one of those last minute flights. I churned a bit, eh, that must be horribly expensive, booking a flight for the next day. She admitted that it would be about 400 euro through her system. Luckily I had my laptop with me, and she quickly set it up with the Schipol wireless system so that I could get the ticket myself for cheaper. Time was running out, the plane was leaving in about 30 minutes and I was intent on not missing it. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">It was the quickest ticket I ever bought, slamming in the information it required in the Jet Airways website to purchase it as fast as possible. As soon as the credit card information had gone through, I appeared on her system too, and within 5 seconds she printed my new boarding pass to dhaka. I advised that I'd have to enter the country anyway to collect my bag and re-check it on Jet Airways, but she was already half-way finished getting it checked through all the way…somehow. There were a few quick phone calls in there, a blur of Dutch, and bam, within the span of about 5 minutes, I had a ticket to Dhaka and that silly bag was checked the whole way through. I thanked my animated, concerned, and outrageously helpful booking woman profusely and scurried off to the gate again. I had just been the witness of a space that had access to the inner workings of this complicated airline system. How had she pulled up my ticket information the moment I purchased it? Who had she called to advise about the bag being checked through? I understood none of it, nor the Dutch that was flying around during the whole process, but it was time to try it again. That woman at the check in before security that had started this whole mess gave me a funny look as she verified my ticket to dhaka on her little system, making .abolutely. .sure., and checking twice, that indeed it was lawful to let me onboard. The spinning x-ray cage machine afterward found the wooden prayer beads I had in one leg pocket and the discarded paper receipts I had in the other. I guess I hadn't followed to rules to empty *all* of my pockets. But I didn't realize, however should now learn to expect, that their security system would know everything. Every time. All the time. </p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">I slept most of the flight. Good thing those crying children were in the row in front of me rather than behind. One stewardess, Irmgaards, was happy to answer all my questions I had about what it was like to be a KLM attendant. My relationship with the airline evolved into one characterized by fear but also respect, love but also hate. I asked about her visa situation, evidently flight attendants don't need any visa to enter countries, except the US, so the stringent 2 month role and all these silly strings attached for an average 'tourist' like me seemed to be way below her radar. I exited the plane in Delhi and recognized immediately the spot just before you go down to get stamped into the country, the line of desks at which several of us had waited for hours in December trying to figure out if we could collect our bags without actually entering the country. I may have been more persistent then if I knew now what a hassle it ended up becoming. I approached the desk to explain to the Indian KLM attendant there, in the royal blue suit coat, that I already had my boarding pass for the next flight to Dhaka and wouldn't need to enter the country. After briefly flipping through my passport, his response caught be a bit off guard, but somehow I subconsciously expected it…*Oh, well, yes if you like you can go through security now and wait at the gate, but…the flight doesn't leave for another 12 hours, you're welcome to exit the airport if you like, you have a multiple-entry visa."</p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">The irony.</p> <p class="p2"><br /></p> <p class="p1">I had briefly thought about canceling my Jet Airways ticket and proceeding as planned, meeting up with friends in Delhi, a 24 hour train ride to Calcutta, bus to Dhaka, etc., but just decided to go with plan B as it had been shaped by the vigilant KLM security eye and wait out my hours in the fancy Delhi airport, watching people, exploring, revisiting my notes from the November Buddhism course I took in Nepal, and writing out this silly experience. There was probably a cancellation fee anyway. Who knows, maybe KLM had paid me a big favor, I'd get to Dhaka 4 days early, and I didn't have to worry about the energy-consuming hassle-adventure across India to get there. I've spent all night in the food court typing. I'm not sure what time it is, but with a 12 hour layover, I can bet there's still time to go. It is light outside though. Maybe I'll try out the McSpicy Paneer Burger at the beef-free McDonald's in front of me before meandering to the gate for the last leg of this unexpected unfolding of events. Then, before boarding, I'll pay a visit to the store downstairs that's having a santoor and tabla concert. That checked bag, with all my clothes, I wonder if it will be waiting for me in Dhaka…</p>Matt Balabanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13553246310159327814noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-68965369859425515772011-09-16T13:02:00.000+05:302011-09-16T13:02:36.560+05:30Two Words to ShareYesterday was the final day for the 10th graders. They'll be at home from here on out because they need to focus on studying for their national exams coming up toward the end of September. Another testament to how the entirety of 9th and 10th grade - the cream of the crop, the golden years of St. Joseph - are spent toiling in boredom with accents of anxiousness, pouring over the least stimulating and under-engaging of content, all under the guise that a high grade is the aim of education. Hence why I get a lot more out of helping to teach the 6-8th graders who use a supplemental English curriculum from a series of books that have such enriching literature and thought-provoking, critical-thinking questions. Suffice it to say, the 10th graders were energetic by the time their final day rolled around, coupled with nostalgic reflections of their past years at St. Joseph's. They stormed classrooms shouting, hollering, and cheering, thanking teachers all the while. I suppose Uttom's thanks was being picked up off the ground and tossed in the air. Mayhem. <br /><br />Luckily, I had given my final parting words to the grade the day before when they were a bit less wound up. Perhaps it made a difference to a select few. I wrote the content down in an article that Uttom and the Language Club will publish in a newsletter-like collection and distribute throughout the school. I was really proud it it. It came easily. I guess there are some things you just have such direct access to and awareness of, you can sit down with little preparation and throw it down on paper. Perhaps that means I've been attempting to teach such ideas all along...<br /><br />"As I was sitting in the final class that I would have with the 10th graders today, I wondered what would be the best message to leave them. After almost a year-long experience together, what could I say that would be the most important to remember? I decided on two simple words.<br /><br />By now, I bet many students have heard me proclaim my favorite word in English: “however.” What is “however,” aside from a glorified “but?” Its purpose to me is to demonstrate difference – to show contrast. This seems to be one of our most crucial thought processes. If learning has something to do with new ideas, it must also have something to do with different ones, as new ideas are different from the ones we had before. Moreover, the beauty of a classroom is having more than one person in it – and therefore more than one idea to share. As we are all unique, our opinions and perspectives are unique too. This means that sharing our thoughts and ideas in class is useful for everyone. Many students must have also heard me speak about how, for example, there is so much diversity in the US that I would never really be able to predict how another “American” thinks or lives. A related instance would be a question like this: “Matt Sir, is it hotter or colder than here in the US?” The answer I would give is that it is neither. The whole country couldn’t possibly be one or the other. There are some places which are colder; <b>however</b>, there are some other places which are warmer. This distinction, this difference, isn’t possible without a member of the “however” family list (other famous siblings include “contrastingly,” “on the other hand,” “although,” “even though,” “in spite of,” “despite,” “alternatively,” and “yet”). This diversity among places and people – which exists here in Bangladesh too – is a gift. It allows us to hear, see, and think about something new, something different from our own small world. “However” shows us such differences. It shouts right in our face that there is another side of the story coming; up next there’s another way of looking at the same situation – something different, something new. And thus our perspective expands; our minds have some new material to chew on.<br /><br />In many conversations I have with people here about the US, I have seen a good amount of frustration at times. This is usually due to me not being able to give a concrete conclusion like someone might be searching for. As I may have explained before, there’s no way I could make claims about America as a whole, any given American, or frankly anyone else other than my close friends and family, or any place other than where I grew up. My own experience is quite a small piece of the pie. Such lack of knowledge is not unique to me; none of us really knows for sure about other people and how they think and act. However, I believe that we are usually way too quick to react to the world as if we actually <b>do</b> know it. For instance, one may make a claim about a whole country (eg. “The US is very wealthy” – it’s not – the government is actually swimming in debt) or a country’s people (eg. “Bangladeshis eat rice” – nope – not everyone does). It’s a blessing but also a curse that we understand the world in such a broad and categorical way. It can be surprising how much more precise and defendable ideas become when words like “all” and “every” are replaced with words like “most, “many,” “some,” or “generally.” However, we haven’t quite hit on the second important word in my list of two. In the effort of honesty and accuracy, many of the conversations I have with people get decorated with that rather disappointing word, that rather inconclusive word, that rather halting word: “perhaps.” “Bangladesh is a beautiful country isn’t it?” – Perhaps. “In the US, so many people like McDonald’s hamburgers, isn’t it?” – Perhaps. “Life means enjoyment” – Perhaps. “More money is better” – Perhaps. “Life means studying, determination, and hard work” – Perhaps. “Good marks show that I’ve learned a lot in school” – Perhaps. Perhaps “perhaps” is my second favorite word in English. So, what really is “perhaps” besides a fancy “maybe?” Perhaps “perhaps” is the urge to think and examine rather than to conclude and move on. Perhaps “perhaps” is the demonstration of the unknown. Perhaps “perhaps” is the introduction of new possibilities. Perhaps “perhaps” is the acknowledgement that the world is a much larger, more confusing, nuanced, and complicated place than you or I could possibly understand. Perhaps “perhaps” shows that at a given time, our opinions, beliefs, and ideas are just as likely to be right as they are to be wrong. <br /><br />I smile as I write this. I’m no English teacher. It seems to me that I’m a Thought teacher. It just turns out that English class is the perfect place for some deep thinking. It’s rather silly that after all that thinking, what we’re left with is a “however” (what about some <i>different</i> thinking) and a “perhaps” (what about the thought that our thinking was all wrong – that there’s <i>another possibility</i> here). Enough about English, what about school as a whole? Perhaps many think that school is about gaining knowledge. However, perhaps school is just as useful and even more interesting if instead it’s about turning knowledge inside out – examining it, questioning it, and blasting it apart from all sides. So my fellow thinkers, do with knowledge what you will, and keep some of your most useful tools close at hand – your howevers and your perhapses."Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-78819099285322117882011-06-27T19:04:00.126+05:302011-07-06T22:49:28.197+05:30Northeast India<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89nTVOGfmhw/ThRkwOjGchI/AAAAAAAAA1c/xzjGXSJopCE/s1600/804_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-89nTVOGfmhw/ThRkwOjGchI/AAAAAAAAA1c/xzjGXSJopCE/s400/804_0346.JPG" /></a></div><br />Hopefully you'll excuse the extended hiatus. I've become incredibly disillusioned with blogging an experience that continually seems to become harder and harder to articulate, as well as increasingly more vast with each passing day. Under the weight of what is now half a year of stories, troubles, and joys, it's been a most difficult task to rekindle the energy to sit down and attempt the seemingly (now more than ever) insurmountable task of encapsulating a rather bulging experience. The following is a detailed account of my two week holiday with Keith last December/January through the NE Indian region, less frequented by tourists. I'm not quite sure what I'll do with the proceeding 6 months, but at least something at this point is better than nothing, and as life continues to motor on, following through--in at least in some way--with one's intentions sounds just about where I need to be...<br /><br />I seem to keep coming up against situations that force me to think about how to deal with larger systems that extend beyond our individual interactions. For instance, when I come across stereotypes that all Americans are smart, beautiful, wealthy, and many times sexually loose/promiscuous, how do I respond? Even if I put effort into it and explain my perspective, many times it seems to do no good, as if stereotypes are carried by a stronger current than an actual person-to-person interaction. It’s pretty easy to tell when someone is simply not understanding an idea that’s trying to be communicated. And it’s not unique to Bangladeshis or those who may not know English well. I believe we hear things through our own perspective to such a degree that more often than not, someone talking at us really just ends up reifying and strengthening our own thoughts and opinions, not those of the speaker. With subjective judgments constituting a perception of the surrounding world, everything around us is a manifestation of the mind rather than an objective representation of the external. Studies must show that our attention during conversation is more often than not elsewhere than dealing with comprehension of the speaker’s words. For better or worse, how we understand what’s around us has a permanent subjective bent, all too often clouded in preconceptions and ideas about the way things should work in order to make sense with what we think we know already. Out of respect, perhaps we play the game of a conversation as if the speaker’s words are actually the focus of our consciousness without physically acknowledging its more whimsical and turbulent stream. For whatever reason--perhaps due to simple behavioral tendencies, perhaps because of a lack of full comprehension of my words (even in people whom we would both deem fluent), perhaps due to a different cultural context where the same idea would rather be expressed in a different way with different words--subjective content of the Bangladeshi 'listener' seems to become apparent in one way or another. Eyes can glaze over, followed by a spouting of an entirely different topic or a regurgitation of a relevant preconception contrary to the point I’m trying to make in addressing stereotypes. Eyes can even remain bright and attentive, but then you might realize that you could be saying anything at all and it would likely make no difference, as perhaps the simple nominative fact that “I’m talking with an *American*” is the major cause for attention, not the content of my speech. Again, experiences like this have told me more about myself than whatever a Bangladeshi is. Conversational consciousness, and by extension perception of our world, are things that perhaps we all share, although cultural context entirely shapes their content. There is no way I can claim that I don’t possess these same perceptual dances that perform in the way a subjective consciousness would, for the sake of its own coherence, for the sake of consistency with ideas and preconceptions that are *thought* to be true. It’s just that now I can see these processes—which we all play—from a different angle, and indeed, it’s a revealing one. <br /><br />Preconceptions and stereotypes color behavior as much as they do conversations. And again, responding to such strongly embedded currents is both difficult and problematic. For instance, Keith, Christy, a Bangladeshi temple friend, Thomas (a newly-arrived couchsurfer from Croatia), and I were scouting around a massive historical park in Dhaka searching for places and monuments for a Bangla class assignment. The Victory Day (the anniversary of Pakistan’s surrender to Bangladesh in 1971, marking the end of the 9 month liberation war) holiday crowd was thick in the area, and their energy high and at times carefree to the degree of being rowdy. In one particularly claustrophobic minute or two, Christy was groped twice. She physically responded to the second incident by getting him in a headlock. If I had been closer to the situation and realized what was going on, perhaps I would have physically retaliated against him too, but the crowd and commotion prevented me from knowing for sure what was going on. Fantasies swirled in my head afterward about the prospect of me retaliating against his unacceptable act by also responding in a way that would make him a negative example to others. The point is that we want to get the message across that such harassment is not ok. Yet the question always remains if there is actually anything that can be done against such a widespread system. I glimpsed that guy's face as we were pushing our way out of the crowd, he didn't look like he learned a lesson as much as he looked like he had smugly accomplished something. But who knows. The question is, how hard do you try to fix this and communicate yourself because a) to what extent do our actions have any real effect on the larger system (the real problem) that produces the behavior and b) how do we even know his impetus for the groping? If he groped Christy because he takes advantage of opportunistic circumstances when they arise despite the nationality of the victim, that's different than him doing this because of Christy’s foreign nationality coupled with the idea that things may not transpire negatively because of the cinematic conceptualization that white women are sexually loose anyway. If that WERE the case, you have a whole different can of worms to contend with, not only the equal treatment of women and suppression of harassment, but also the perception of foreigners on the whole is at stake. In thinking about how to respond, we also need to acknowledge that our thoughts in one way or another emerge from our specific histories and contexts that shape tendencies in us over time; so, to what degree is it our American-instilled individualism and equal-treatment initiatives that is voicing itself when we boil with anger at such an occurrence because we feel like we HAVE to do something about it? To what degree are such initiatives applicable in this context? Women here are TAUGHT to be passive regarding sexual harassment. Whether this is right or wrong becomes blurry when we consider that by retaliating against harassment occurrences, a female potentially opens the door for future revenge by the culprit, possibly even amounting to reported cases as severe as rape and death. Additionally and more likely as well as direct, there is the image of the female and of her family to contend with. A court case for abuse and getting the police involved, as an example, might be perceived as a substantial taint on the female's image, and by extension her family as well. Even if the abuse were not her fault. For such reasons, no wonder women are taught that the better part of valor is passiveness. But of course that changes nothing. To upset this system, who knows what is required, and who knows if direct retaliation is the best course of action. Then again, who knows if action is even the best idea; my opinions (like the importance of a woman’s vocalization) are as relative as the contrary opinions many here have about the way things should work. And whether admitted or not, such interactions I have with the flow of things here are the result of globalization, a trend that has its own set of complications and issues. Related to this are judgments of value placed in line with a development paradigm that asserts a progression of attitudes, behaviors, customs, and beliefs parallel to how things have played out in other places. The problematic point emerges when we consider that perhaps development trends for one area are most appropriately informed and transformed by the culture and context OF the area, not from ideals and tendencies that emerge from entirely different contexts, peoples, and indeed, other sides of the world. <br /><br />So, suffice it to say, such a situation must have been quite the experience for Thomas from Croatia. Despite the commotion and crowd, and despite this being his first day outside of Europe, he surprisingly never became overwhelmed. He also surprisingly walked from the airport to Baridhara where he called to find out where we were, followed by a successful navigation of transportation across the city alone. The next day he, Keith, and I went out for lunch. To complete his introduction of the area, Keith suggested that we take him to Movenpick, a Swiss ice cream parlor which had become a popular hang-out among us Fulbrighters. We continued walking down the busy Gulshan road even after we saw that Movenpick was closed; the colorful bright yellow and purple walls of Wonderland emerged in front of us another block down. Keith and I both knew upon sighting it that Thomas’ visit to Dhaka wouldn’t be complete until he sampled the outrageous rides there, including the thrill simulator for both 80s-style roller coasters and batlike flights through repeated blair witch-esque shady forest scenes, the dancing mouse mascot amidst a museum-like display of a primitive nomadic hunting tribe, and the walk-through 3D zoo containing large bulging images of foxes, lions, camels, dinosaurs, and cabbage. On our way to Wonderland’s real life zoo to visit the monkeys and turkey living there, we passed a store that we had made fun of during our last visit. Amidst popcorn stands, rides, souvenir shops, bumper cars, video games, and soda stalls, this small corner shop looked like it sold solely microwaves. We were both nearly past the store, giggling all the while, when I stopped and paused for a moment. I needed microwaves. We were moving from our place in the Baridhara enclave across the city to a new apartment closer to the school we’d teach at. Completely new and unfurnished, buying kitchenware and the like for the flat was on our list of things to do. I stepped in the store to at least investigate the prices. I was sat down and showed a multitude of various houseware items that I could get free of charge if I purchased a set of pots and pans. Evidently the place sold much more than microwaves. With their special offer too good to pass up, we (and several helpers) ended up walking away with an entire set of new pots and pans, a 2-place natural gas burner for them, a set of silverware, Tupperware containers, a toaster, a water heater, a water filter, a water pitcher, a blender, plates, glasses, and last but not least, a microwave. The total came out to about $350.00 USD. With the set of pots and pans already being listed at a price of $250.00 USD, I’d say it was a pretty good deal. The special combination offer with the pots and pans, we found out later, was a special offer for Victory Day. They had 10 sets available, and 8 had already been purchased from the day before. I guess whatever bizarre amusement-park marketing tactic that this brand had actually worked; we made quite a purchase. Interestingly too, had Thomas not showed up from Croatia, we wouldn’t have decided to show him Movenpick, if Movenpick had been open, we wouldn’t have decided to then go to Wonderland and from there take advantage of their special and get just about all the necessities for our apartment in one place. You never know how things will play out I guess. Perhaps if the zoo at the corner of Wonderland had no turkey, it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting, and I wouldn’t have suggested to go. Maybe this was the turkey’s doing.<br /><br />The fact that soon our Bangla class would end and that I’d be moving to a completely new area never quite struck me. I could intellectualize that; yes, I need to study for the final that’s coming up; yes, I need to pack my things because they all need to be moved across the city; no, you won’t be having Suranjan’s delicious cooking every day anymore; no, you will not be living with all these people that you’ve come to know over the past few months anymore. Aside from Keith that is. Maybe it was how comfortable I’d become where I was in Baridhara, maybe it was how unknown and different my life would be starting from the turn of the year, likely it was a simple lack of time to sit and think; for whatever reason, the sense I had about my last night there, our last class, our final, and our last meal cooked by Suranjan didn’t seem as final as they really were. Every once in a while though I could hear a small voice in the back of my mind: “get ready, not only will the turn of the year present incredibly new challenges, but also the next 2 weeks of holiday vacation will likely turn out to be an adventure like you can’t imagine.” <br /><br />I spent the afternoon after our final baking again. We Fulbrighters were having a final gathering that evening themed with Christmas crossed with reflections of the past 3 months, and any decent party obviously is graciously accompanied by a fresh batch of apple dumplings and pumpkin pie. Cookies were attempted but didn’t go too far, the small size of the oven combined with a lack of cookie sheets stood as an obstacle. The cook at my friend’s house where I was baking was also friends with our cook, Suranjan, and evidently they must talk about me all the time. Despite us being several blocks away from my apartment, he was able to tell me all about my favorite foods and how much I usually eat of each type of dish. It’s no surprise that Suranjan would discuss me with his friends, I sure did keep him busy; we had also become pretty good friends through the dozen-or-so lazy Saturday mornings that I would spend watching him prepare his magic, taking notes at each step in the process. He sure did bend over backwards for me over the past three months with all the special dishes I’d ask for. Whether or not I’d request foods, he knew that I’d eat a ton at any given lunch and made sure to have ample food on the table everyday despite the outrageous volume of food I’d consume compared to the others. Olinda, Keith, Laule’a, and I agreed that I’d pay about three times as much as each of them for food, but in all honesty I probably was eating about 3 times as much as not one of them, but all of them combined. Hey, if you make it that delicious, I’m going to eat it. With all that said, I was sure to give Suranjan an abundantly healthy tip on our last day; it’s comically certain that if I had not been there that semester, Suranjan would have had only about a third of this semester’s work on his hands. <br /><br />Evidently my baking this time around was just as delicious as last time. That evening as I was arranging things in my room there was a knock on my room door. Keith had just come back from doing something in the city and had sampled the leftovers. I opened the door and was greeted with wide gazing eyes and a jaw-dropped mouth, a fistful of pumpkin custard in one hand. Keith went on with astonishment about how it was more than likely the best pumpkin pie he’s ever had. Bangladesh is a funny place to learn how to bake. No measuring cups, no temperature markings, few ingredients, and a mandatory march across several blocks to even find an oven. <br /><br />The next morning I awoke early to offer support to Christy; she had scheduled the vet to come at 8:30 to euthanize her cat, Chum Chum. She had found the white kitten on the street and his rambunctiousness was a playful addition to the apartment until he was accidentally stepped upon and shortly thereafter fell off a bed. Not being able to walk afterward didn’t affect his cuddliness, as his favorite place was always nestled as close to you as possible. A few weekends ago Christy had gone for the weekend, and I had looked after him. During that time he started walking again rigidly. Our hopes were crushed when suddenly for unknown reasons he became completely immobilized again and would cry in pain throughout the night. Our deliberations about putting him down returned and after a few days of seeing his pain the choice was evident. I walked into Christy’s apartment as Christy and Keith were walking out of her room followed by the vet. With red eyes Christy said nothing but “the deed is done.” We wrapped Chum Chum-his tail hair eerily standing on end probably because of rigor mortis--in a cloth and placed him in a basket. Keith and Christy went off to a ghat in the city to release him drifting off into the river. <br /><br />Coming to my senses of everything that needed to be accomplished in just one short day, I started out early into the city. I was heading to a passport office where I would try to get a 'change of exit permit.' Since Keith and I had bus tickets going to Calcutta by road, I was in conflict with whatever who-knows-why law that claims I have to leave the country by the same mode I came. Although we wouldn’t for sure know whether or not I’d be checked for a change-of-route permit, I didn’t want to take the chance of being turned away at the border, especially since the entry point closest to Calcutta (southwest of Bangladesh) was supposed to be the most strict about it. In any case, I spotted the office on my map, walked to the bus station, and found a bus that would go past it by asking some people. I may have actually only mentioned “passport office” to a few souls. As the bus continued through thick traffic, I drifted off to sleep. I emerged from a dream due to a few distant shouts. The bus was stopped and someone outside was trying to get my attention. As I turned to face the bus’ interior, it was a surprise to be greeted by every single person on board offering a piercing stare. Disoriented, I somehow managed to figure out that the bus had stopped in front of the passport office. Jolting upwards, I hurried off quickly so people wouldn’t be delayed any longer. As I stepped off and the bus pulled away the question jumped into my head…how did that guy know I was going here? And then I got more confused. These buses sometimes don’t even stop fully for people to get on and get off, yet we had all stopped simply for that drowsy foreigner sitting in the back. <br /><br />The passport office was confusing. Not only were there multiple floors, but I couldn’t quite figure out exactly who I needed to talk to. And I wasn’t about to wait in a long queue just to be advised to go to a different one. I skirted my way around the en-caged waiting windows by going up a floor, going to the other side, and coming down directly into the processing office. I guess that was me being assertive? Eventually I found the right guy and found out I needed passport photos and photocopies. Sigh. Out to the bazaar about a 40 minute’s walk away. It turned out ok that I had no idea where to go; one of the first shops I poked my head into had a customer that owned a shop specifically for photos. With a wide smile and a giggle she ushered me over to the shop as well as accompanied me to the nearby photocopier. While waiting for the photos to develop, a heavy-set man approached me and interrupted another conversation I as having to introduce himself. Guess he was kindof a big deal. I think he expected me to be a ton more excited than I was about the fact that he works in the US. So what work do you do? Pesticide manufacturing. As you might imagine I offered no congratulations. <br /><br />Back at the passport office it was lunch break and the office was empty. I guess this was turning into an all-day event. I had to pack literally all of my things and leave Baridhara for Calcutta in the evening, but what had to be done had to be done, and all I could do now was wait. Lunch break was over, I was the first in line to offer my documents. And then they needed to be processed. Yep, definitely an all-day affair. I was past the point of being nervous and trying to hurry things along. What would be, would be, and I was having a good enough time watching the office and its workers go through the day. A woman who appeared to be from a far eastern Asian country sat beside me as she waited to receive word on her visa extension. After about an hour of silence, I felt compelled to at least say hello. And what country are you from? North Korea. Bam. All of my attention beamed at her. A lot of my energy had to be invested in keeping my exploding curiosity in check and inhibiting me from overwhelming her with question after question. This still had to be a normal conversation. And the last thing I wanted to do was make her feel abnormal. My pass came. I absentmindedly set it down on the table next to me. It wasn’t at the top of my priority list anymore. Funny how things change like that. The conversation went great. She owns a Korean restaurant which I actually pass by every time I go to pick up mail. I remember her saying that she has seen many foreigners in Pyongyang. When I asked her if people there like Americans her face adopted a somewhat theatrical expression like a teacher would give to a grade school student who offered a wrong answer to a math problem. Combined with a bit of a smile; we both knew the flavor of the answer. “Not sure,” she said, “…with the war and all.” The honesty was refreshing; rightly or wrongly I took positive remarks she’d offer about the country with a grain of salt…not because I *know* what it’s like in North Korea of course, but because I knew it was possible that she was taught to offer certain responses to certain questions to people like me. Who knows. When I asked her where her business profits went, she said that it goes to improving the business and the upkeep of the building and worker’s payments, but that if she 'liked' she could also contribute to projects of the country. I also remember how insistent she was about the commonality between the North and the South, same people, same food, same language. Her suggestions of the likeness between the two countries certainly didn’t echo the recent military activity in the area.<br /><br />As the sun was setting I gathered up my things (being sure to tuck that silly pass away in my pocket carefully) and bid her a warm farewell, feeling somewhat like an ambassador for whatever reason. I walked away with a fascinating feeling of excitement combined with the satisfaction of being exposed to something that had previously been so completely distant. I arrived back at the apartment with enough time to throw a few large things in the taxi that Keith had hired to take him and his belongings to the new apartment in Mohammadpur across the city. I knew I wouldn’t have time to get everything of my own there, but it was no problem because Christy had poked her head in to see what I was up to and offered for me to keep my stuff in her room before I even thought of that idea. It’s always a treat when Christy is around; with a contagious smile and giggle, she always has something either witty or insightful to say, along with endless captivating stories about the great deal of time she’s spent in Africa. When I think of Christy two instances pop into my head: her habit of slipping candies into my shirt pocket, and that one time she asked me randomly during a conversation after lunch if I wanted to cut her hair. “But I’ve never cut hair before.” Without hesitation Christy replied, “Wanna try?” <br /><br />Keith and I deliberated over the phone about whether or not he should come back to Baridhara from Mohammadpur with the taxi and pick me up before going to the bus station or whether we should just meet each other there. Since neither of us knew exactly where to go, I was relieved that I had convinced him that it’d be best to swing by me first. We’d pray that we could get to the bus station in time. I remember starting out my travels in India 5 months ago similarly with Melissa; we almost missed our first train. (And now that I think of it, I flat out missed my flight to Chicago before I flew onward to Delhi). In any case, I resorted to stuffing my things in bags and shoving them in a corner of Christy’s room rather than actually going through and packing. I left our apartment still decorated for our Halloween party, cobwebs covering the place. Rasel, our groundskeeper, said he’d be able to take care of it. With some quick goodbyes to John, Christy, and the helping hands in the apartment garage (Biz and Laule’a had already left for the US), I made it outside just as Keith arrived, and I piled into the taxi with my two bags of stuff for our 2 week trip (mostly clothes, I expected we’d be in some pretty cold places). As we were about to leave, Christy handed us a bag she had prepared from the Christmas goodies her Mom had sent with her boyfriend who had arrived from the US earlier that day to travel with Christy during the holiday. Chocolates and colorfully-iced sugar cookies hit the spot. And just like that, I was moved out of our place from the last 3 months, finished with Bangla class, and on my way to an adventure through NE India with Keith. <br /><br />It sure did help having a taxi drive us so we didn’t have to contend with asking around for the city bus stand. Although knots grew in our stomach about making the bus on time, after we had arrived we found out the bus would be an hour late. After eating a plate of noodles at a Chinese restaurant, we boarded the international Green Line bus heading toward Calcutta. The interior was the most comfortable I’ve ever seen a bus have, with soft beige leather seating, soft lighting, nearly flat reclining chairs, and ample leg room. It smelled of a fresh hotel room. Sitting in the back, Keith and I had a good view of the back bus window behind us. One half of it was heavily cracked and bent inward, being prevented from shattering by smudgings of black tar. Somehow it wasn’t very noticeable, but I did make the mental note of contrast to everything else beautiful about the bus. Keith and I feel asleep relatively quickly, the cushy air-suspension absorbing all shocks from the road, making it feel as if we were gliding on air. We loaded on and off of a ferry but I didn’t notice. Then the baby. Oh my God. That kid. Piercing incessant shrieks continued for at least 45 minutes, the shrillness shooting up your spine with every cry. I guess there’s not much more to do but sit, I mean, what can you do? Toss it out the window? I considered the possibility. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’ve had my share of tantrums as a child. What that probably meant though is that I deserved a few more tosses out the window. <br /><br />On a related note—and perhaps it’s an inappropriate generalization—but children from more advantaged backgrounds always seem to cry harder. I haven’t seen children in poverty cry like that for…no reason. It’s all too easy to notice dissatisfaction, whining, and wailing tantrums in children dressed up like frilly dolls in shiny shoes, begging their jewelry make-up moms and smart suited dads to go back to that toy store we just passed. That kind of behavior amongst children in poverty only seems to happen if…well…I don’t remember seeing a kid in poverty as unhappy as some of these chubby whining brats. Now think about who we call privileged. Although I’ve never lived in poverty, I am well aware of the problems associated with satisfaction sought through consumerism. I guess that means that all that glitters is not gold. And unfortunately with consumerism on the rise in this rapidly developing country, we’re all looking for what glitters, for what the “privileged” own. What that ends up amounting to is a combination of unrealistic goals and failed expectations. The finish line is disguised as a new purchase, but hidden under the glittery veil is the contorted, wailing face of a fashion child, tears rolling down chubby cheeks, a show that suggests there is simply nothing worse on this planet than to have my demands not met. <br /><br />So the next morning the bus stopped at Benapole, a town on the border at a crossing that is heavily frequented between India and Bangladesh. I noticed when stepping off the bus that my feet barely fit in my sandals; when I looked closer, they were visibly inflamed. It was a curious condition to have, and interesting to look at. It must have been caused by being reclined--but not flat--for so long, perhaps 14 hours? We spent some time talking to locals and looking around while we waited for a jeep to take us to the actual border. It was exciting to feel close to India. Familiar Indian chip , cracker, and cookie brands filled small snack shops, and seeing these yielded the first wave of realization that soon I would be back. The process of crossing the border itself was rather confusing, shuffling between places to fill out forms, pay exit taxes, wait, etc. I wasn’t too excited when our passports were walked off for a few minutes with by some official; to whatever degree though, you just need to go with the flow. And if you’d rather have things work out another way, humbly go about it; if trouble emerges, you play the most helpful card of all: the unaware and apologetic tourist. We were ready to play this tactic during, really, most of the next 2 weeks. I would have been ready to claim my ignorance then if someone had caused a fuss at me walking right past the customs x-ray machine (I always do that), but no trouble. I would have been ready to claim ignorance at the desk official stamping our passports if he requested a change-of-route permit (to exit by land but having come by air) if I hadn’t had the patience to wait at that Dhaka passport office the day before, but I had that form tucked away in the pocket just in case. The official was beaming at us and barely paid much attention to our passports; he was more interested in the fact that we were there and, most especially, that we knew some Bangla. Small talk isn’t my thing, especially when you receive whoops and hollers for simply saying “How are you?” To me, that got old about 3 months ago. Good thing Keith is a great chatter. So, I let him do his thing, a common theme during the next two weeks. And it worked like a charm. I guess a card better than “dumb tourist” is actually “small talk Bangla.” Yep, I bet a few silly sentences made more processes easier for us than we realize. In any case, the border official continued beaming at us without requesting my change-of-route permit. I guess it was a ‘right place, right time’ thing or perhaps I took Lonely Planet’s warnings too seriously that this border was notorious for change-of-route hassle. Then, right past the Bangladesh gate and into India we went. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--WQ8qbK22WA/ThPuazo-IbI/AAAAAAAAAvE/PSFf35tjQ-c/s1600/804_0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--WQ8qbK22WA/ThPuazo-IbI/AAAAAAAAAvE/PSFf35tjQ-c/s400/804_0310.JPG" /></a></div>- India-Bangladesh Benapole border<br /><br />The entry process on the other side was equally disjointed; our passports got stamped without us knowing, then we requested to go back to the office to have them stamped, the guy ushering us through this got mad because we didn’t trust him, etc. We were surprised to see that everyone on our journey to Calcutta needed to buy another bus ticket; the one we had gotten only went as far as Benapole. Rupee-less, a few USD I had tucked away in my pouch proved useful at an exchange booth. We bought some oranges (which would also be a theme the next two weeks), and boarded the bus to Calcutta. <br /><br />After a brief stop at a tasty roadside dhaba for lunch, we arrived in the busy city later that afternoon. We decided to head to Keith’s friend’s house where he had last left his auto rickshaw. What we were hoping to do was pick up the vehicle and head north to the Darjeeling area, then go as far east and south as we could, circumnavigating Bangladesh, until we found a border crossing that would allow us to enter without a carnet pass for the vehicle, the reason why Keith was denied at Benapole coming to Bangladesh 3 months ago. One of the workers on the bus was heading in the same direction, so we followed him to a shared taxi stall through all sorts of streets and markets, clipping along all the while. It was bewildering to suddenly be absorbed in Calcutta’s familiar energy, this time accented by the occasional Christmas decorations like massive paper mache golden bells hanging outside shopping malls and Santa Clauses in shop windows. I guess store owners here knew the Christmas season has become the perfect marketing technique. The street food was also highly visible to me, morsals not as readily available in Dhaka. No time to snack though, our guide was booking along. The smells of incense, the spicy, salty, tangy taste of that street food I had been craving, even the array of sweetness and pungency in Indian paan reflected a difference between India and Bangladesh that for me is hard to miss. Keith offered the perfect word: more sensual. Bangladesh had its own interesting and unique facets, but I could certainly sense that there was a part of me that was now charged with excitement to have been awakened once again.<br /><br />The driver of our shared taxi ride to the south of the city chatted so loudly and jovially that it was difficult to figure out whether or not he was joking. After a quick stop at an ATM, Keith and I were walking down an open road to the house of his friend, Pajarini. Night had settled in and it was difficult to see too far ahead, just the brick walls with painted mobile phone service provider advertisements immediately to our side. Keith commented how it was strange to be walking down the exact same road in the exact same city (Calcutta of all places) on Christmas Eve for the second year in a row. He had been here before because he, Pajarini, and many others were spending their winter holiday driving north up through West Bengal conducting projects based on anti-human trafficking (of which India is one of the most grievous offenders in the world). <br /><br />Pajarini had just arrived from a trip to Sikkim in the far north of India. Lacking phone reception in those mountainous areas, we had been unable to warn her of our arrival. The events that followed somewhat confused me. Pajarini became remarkably frustrated that we had arrived unannounced; after we explained that we didn’t expect to stay, just to see where the auto rickshaw was that Keith had left there 3 months ago, she disappeared for a few minutes and with little apology in her voice explained that she didn’t know where it was. Evidently it had been removed from their garage (maybe for space reasons) and then removed from the street because of legal parking issues. We were all unaware of where whatever pound it could be at or even if it was still in one piece. Something also about how her father might know but he was unreachable until tomorrow? Keith remained remarkably unphased and offered no flavor of demand that we figure out its location. My eyes gazed back and forth between them, trying to figure out what the story was. Keith turned to me at one point and said “Well, you win some, you lose some.” Evidently our journey had suddenly completely changed: instead of driving around Bangladesh with the goal of entering the country, we were now on the scout for whatever transportation came our way for whatever destination struck our whimsy for the next 2 weeks.<br /><br />After an hour or so Pajarini became confusingly interested in spending time with us during our night in Calcutta despite the work for something she had to do. However, with no strings attached to the south of the city anymore, Keith and I took a shared auto rickshaw to a famous temple he needed to visit again. Over a meal of street Chinese fast food (varieties not found in Bangladesh that I was keen on getting my hands on) we decided to see if we could make it to a noteworthy church for a Christmas Eve service. The famous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Paul's_Cathedral,_Kolkata">St. Paul’s Cathedral</a> was renowned to be inconceivably crowded that evening. At a church we stopped at that was preparing for a singing service in an hour, I suddenly realized how driven I felt to access the music that this season had without fail brought forth to me every year until now. I wanted the carols, I wanted the hymnals, I wanted the organ accompaniment. Although I was fairly certain that such a desire was impossible to be fulfilled, feeling that craving was a really powerful experience that, looking back, was just as exciting. <br /><br />One of Keith’s other friends, Sanjit, from a year ago met us at that church and after chatting for some time we decided to head to a larger church, St. Thomas, for their midnight service. The service was indeed crowded but at least there were seats available. The interior was massive and wide; many hundreds of people were inside, although it was difficult to see everything past the thick stone ceiling support columns that we sat near. I did spend quite a bit of time admiring the loft in the back, large enough for a choir and the first pipe organ I’ve seen in South Asia. I think I heard it faintly playing when we had just entered, but unfortunately for the rest of the service its music remained absent in favor of the blaring electric keyboard imposing its hip hop tinny beats that might make you want to move your hips from side to side. At least the choir had one or two nice numbers, none of which however satiating the desire I had for a semblance of traditional music. So I spent my time gazing at various congregation members. It was jarring to see that Christmas Eve church service’s garment-of-choice was just as easily a sari as anything else. As I noticed the dozens of foreigners present (a startling sight; I probably hadn’t seen this many foreigners in one place since being in the US) I wondered what kind of longed-after Christmas customs they were feeling the need for, if any. The three of us having nearly fallen asleep several times throughout the service, we left before communion. <br /><br />On the street outside Sanjit suggested that we go to one of his friend’s Christmas parties, and seeing no issue, Keith and I happily tagged along. This girl’s apartment was at the top story of a multi-story complex and boasted a roof-patio--lined with hundreds of potted plants--from which you could gaze all around onto the massive residential area. The apartment itself hosted likely hundreds of chatty people, a booze table that people couldn’t seem to get enough of, and a loud flashy dance floor. Seeing alcohol was completely striking; I had grown 100% accustomed to its absence in Bangladesh, and even if I saw an advertisement on the street side for alcohol in India, I would do a double-take and ask myself silently if they were allowed to do that before reminding myself that it was indeed legal here. Any time I went down in the apartment I didn’t seem to meet anyone interesting, so I spent most of my time on the roof, as did Keith. Moreover, there was a huge bowl of Chinese spiced chicken pieces and sweet and sour sauce there that I had no shame indulging myself in. Our host surprisingly spent much of her time there too, all of us chatting with the dozen or so friends up there. Most were in college and had just come back from their semester for winter break. Several were attending universities in either the US or Canada. It was interesting to compare an experience like this to the experiences I would have with my friends during winter break in Wexford, more than likely in our basement sharing stories over cheese, chips, and sliced turkey breast. Despite obvious differences here, I wondered what winter break meant for these guys, if we looked forward to it in similar ways, appreciated it for its social time and break from schoolwork perhaps. Growing tired, I fell asleep on the canopied bed (yes, on the roof) as conversations continued beside me. Eventually there was a stir to figure out where Keith, Sanjit, and I would spend the night. Although we were offered to stay there, we eventually thought it most comfortable to head back to Sanjit’s house where there was space for us in his room. <br /><br />I drifted slowly out of sleep the next morning. I bet a small side-of-the-mouth grin came upon my face at some point in time. This wasn’t like any Christmas morning I had ever had, that was for sure. I opened my eyes and woke up to see that Keith and Sanjit had already left the room. As I slowly stood up, feet tingling to be stood on again, I stepped out into the living room and glanced at a newspaper on the coffee table. The name on the front was unfamiliar to me, and I became confused as to why it wasn’t titled “The Daily Star” like I was used to seeing in Bangladesh. Within about 1.5 seconds my confusion led me to believe I wasn’t in Bangladesh anymore but another country. But then I became more confused…how had I made it to another country? I reasoned that I was in India but a tinge of confusion still nestled itself in the back of my mind. That was a weird 1.5 seconds. Christmas morning and you entirely forget where you are. After the fact, it dawned on me that what had been so confusing was lack of memory of a plane flight. Of the four times I’ve entered India, this was the first I hadn’t flown in. Similarly, it didn’t quite subconsciously register that I could have left Bangladesh without a flight involved. Calcutta and Dhaka were then drawn tangibly close in my mental geography because I had actually traveled the distance rather than flown; flights are funny limbo-like LaLa land things, you’re neither here nor there nor anyplace at all, just in transit. <br /><br />I was the last to eat breakfast. I think it was roti flatbread and chickpea salad. Tasty, but comically different from the stocking chocolates and grandma’s nut roll that Christmas morning usually brought. I remember the water I used to shower with from the bucket being icy cold. By the end of the next two weeks, the sensation of pouring cups of piercingly wintery water over my dry, warm body would be something I’d grow accustomed to. After a quick conversation with Sanjit’s parents and several ‘thank yous’, Keith, our bags, and I made our way onto the raucous street outside. Keith wore a green and red elf cap, a contrast with our surroundings that I couldn’t help but giggle at. Every once in a while a squealey kid would dash up to us and shout “Merry Christmas!” <br /><br />Eventually we found our way to an autorickshaw which took us to the main intercity bus stand. There we found out (and easily so with the two men that fiercely guided us as soon as we entered the bus stand gate) that the next bus to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siliguri">Siliguri</a> (from where we could go to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darjeeling">Darjeeling</a>) left in the late afternoon and traveled overnight. Keen on seeing as much of the tourist-neglected northeast India as possible, heading north to the Darjeeling area seemed like an obvious first step, from where we’d head eastward above Bangladesh. After buying our tickets we both decided to spend the afternoon separately in ways that—now that I think about it—reflect our individual interests. Keith made his way to a temple that he heard about from one of the Hindu holymen that reside at the famous <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramna_Kali_Mandir">Kali Mandir</a> in Shahbag, Dhaka, and I made my own way to scout around for some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chat_food">chaat street food</a>. Our unique but succinct interests comically emerge in contrast from time to time. The other day we both looked at the same honey jar. Keith saw that the company name was that of a long-ago holy prophet; I saw that it was brewed from the pollen of mustard flowers. Perhaps one of the most telling exchanges we've had, both brief and profound, I remember having some time ago: "You know Keith, I think I really can understand your interest in these spiritual endeavors, spirituality is food for the soul, you know." "Funny you'd say that, Matt, because I'd say that eating food is a spiritual experience."<br /><br />I first took the subway to a station near the massive St. Paul’s cathedral so I could at least get a glimpse of it (my curiosities had grown since hearing the day before how famous it was during the Christmas season). After a stop at a food vendor that I remember having visited before during a previous bout in Calcutta, I found my way to the cathedral’s front gate…jam packed with several hundred people. Maybe they were kept from entering to ease congestion from the cathedral's actual main grounds. Whatever the case, I was fine simply viewing the massive white cathedral from a distance and imagining an organ inside. Evidently the planetarium is also the place to be on Christmas day; I noticed just as many people waiting to get inside there as I walked away from the Cathedral. The Christmas mood was slightly broken by a guard violently shouting at a crowd member. Meandering in the general direction I thought the bus station was, and aided by random people I felt like asking, I weaved about the sidewalk’s thousands of shoulder to shoulder passers-by, going who-knows-where to do who-knows-what on their day off, maybe just to peruse through the dozens of sidewalk shoe, handbag, and toy trinket vendors. I remember stopping at an orange juice stand before making a call to Mom, Dad, and Eric. Although it was early in their morning, I knew they’d be up because their plan was to visit a homeless shelter in Pittsburgh to feed breakfast to the people there. Mom was whipping up dozens of eggs, Eric was lazily emerging from sleep, Dad was getting ready for work, and I was threading my way through tiny spaces between hundreds of Calcutta’s sidewalk goers. Merry Christmas! <br /><br />Before going back to the bus station I made a quick stop at a shoe store I had been in before. I was wearing the pair of cushy rubber sandals I had bought from there 2 years ago, but since then the cush had worn out. Despite searching across Bangladesh in the same brand name store, evidently this particular store in Calcutta was the only one that carried the model that had become my favorite. Just where I had remembered going, right in the back right-hand corner of the store, 2 dusty pairs of my sandals remained on the bottom rack, probably still there from 2 years ago. Normally I’m all about trying new things, but this size and model fit like a glove. Who knows, in another two years, after the cush is worn out again, perhaps I’ll have to go back to my shop in Calcutta to get the last remaining pair. <br /><br />Keith and I met up at the bus stand just before it departed. Unfortunately Keith had spent the day in traffic and only got a few minutes to see the temple (however it turned out to be a good time for him to get caught up on reading). Our bus was the first sleeper bus that I’d been on; the interior was two levels of flat compartments on each side of the aisle, each compartment sleeping two. Keith and I were up on the top in the back corner, with a good view of the outside perched up there as we pulled away. It’s a fascinating feeling reclining flat like that on a moving, turning, bouncing bus, and for quite some time I couldn’t keep from giggling. At that time it was normal Christmas hours in the US, and I phoned the grandparents along with an aunt and uncle before the phone ran out of minutes. Exiting Calcutta from the north, we passed by the city’s developing high-rise, gentrified suburb area. Keith talks all the time about how India is developing like crazy, and that area proved it. There were whole minutes at a time that I couldn’t keep from gaping at some of the massive housing complexes, some even resembling skyscrapers. The area was sprawled out, eerily contrasting with the density of Calcutta. It seemed like the whole expanse was just made for the periodic housing complex, shopping complex, and of course, billboards the size of football fields to aid the propagation of this new area’s product consumption. Too bad this sprawl is what we think of when we call an area ‘developing.’ <br /><br />That night it was difficult to sleep. Eventually we were outside of Calcutta’s road system and rocketing down less-maintained spotty roads. I could say the bus was bouncing or bumping over the road’s holes, but it’s more appropriate to say banging and slamming. Our jarring and jerking was so severe that I was more concerned about keeping my head from rocketing into the ceiling rather than staying in one spot in the compartment. Additionally, our window would slide open in the commotion easily, letting in gushes of frigid air. I laughed pretty hard at my sorry attempts to put on any clothes that I could get out of my bag, in the darkness of a compartment that was too small to sit up in, being thrashed around all the while and constantly off balance. The experience was somewhat like riding a roller coaster all night, one specifically designed to toss you about in a small, dark, cold space. In all honestly--despite the horrifying (yet accurate) description--it was a complete blast and also was pretty hilarious at some points. Towards early morning I became too fatigued to care anymore and drifted off to sleep for a few hours. We stopped briefly at a town for a bathroom and breakfast (aka bag of Indian Cheetos) break. Squeezing out of the compartment, I got each leg one by one onto the aisle, completely trashed with bags thrown about from the night’s journey. I must have looked just as messy emerging from the bus, hair all over the place, several layers of clothes inside out, and more and likely not able to walk completely straight. When I boarded the bus again, I was surprised to see a family with several small children in a compartment, snacking on a small breakfast. Never once during our night adventure did I hear crying. As a matter of fact, despite the small children, the only sound I remember aside from the bus’ banging were my periodic giggles. Perhaps the kids were knocked unconscious? It’s just silly that our air-suspension glide-on-a-cloud bus ride from Dhaka to Calcutta was accompanied by murderous shrieks from a child on board, but our shockless demon thrasher bus had a family with children content enough not only to stay completely silent, but to give me wide smiles as I glanced at them on my way back to my compartment. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MV2TWYzkcDw/ThPy6jeA_RI/AAAAAAAAAvk/RwnQfQAn8_8/s1600/804_0314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MV2TWYzkcDw/ThPy6jeA_RI/AAAAAAAAAvk/RwnQfQAn8_8/s400/804_0314.JPG" /></a></div>- The sleeper bus<br /><br />A few hours later we had arrived in Siliguri. Parked right next to our bus was a jeep getting loaded up for a trip to Darjeeling, and we conveniently tagged along. Riding out of Siliguri, the terrain quickly rose steeper and steeper, until the rode couldn’t go straight anymore but curved back and forth, the vast scenery opening up on one side of the jeep, then the other after another turnabout. We stopped at a small restaurant for lunch. Over rice, red vegetable curry, and the best onion slices I’ve ever tasted, our drivers enthusiastically introduced us to our first phrases in their mother language, Nepali. Our jeep ride continued up and up and up winding roads with ever-far-reaching mountain views visible. During the whole stretch of road we were on, there were always small train tracks as well, curving their way. Initially, this small British-installed train route, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Darjeeling_Himalayan_Railway">Darjeeling Himalayan Railway</a>, was the main way to get to Darjeeling. I think the tracks are too badly damaged to use for the whole trek up to Darjeeling, but we certainly saw the train running in Darjeeling itself, I guess providing transport within the city as well as serving as a tourist thrill ride.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-be-2lt3QBks/ThRvrsb3BtI/AAAAAAAAA14/wyTfzzbbBWE/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h20m57s145.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-be-2lt3QBks/ThRvrsb3BtI/AAAAAAAAA14/wyTfzzbbBWE/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h20m57s145.png" /></a></div><br />Darjeeling itself rests on terrain just about as steep as our jeep journey, but somehow it’s an entire city. Riding along the road, every once in a while you’ll catch a glimpse of the mountain face opening up past the cracks between buildings. The roads wind about shops, guest houses, colorful flagged temples, grey brick homes, colonial structures like a stone church with a steeple, and even a shopping mall. Jeeps are the vehicle of choice, powerful enough to traverse the hilly areas, but accompanied by choking paths of diesel exhaust in their wake. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-cG6LtNWF0/ThRweds6fBI/AAAAAAAAA2E/MtfOq7AgJxk/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h33m21s207.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-cG6LtNWF0/ThRweds6fBI/AAAAAAAAA2E/MtfOq7AgJxk/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h33m21s207.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8nGDVTmXsrU/ThRwuxWb1RI/AAAAAAAAA2M/gZglPyQvcC0/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h29m43s254.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8nGDVTmXsrU/ThRwuxWb1RI/AAAAAAAAA2M/gZglPyQvcC0/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h29m43s254.png" /></a></div><br />Our drivers welcomed us to Darjeeling by buying us tea at the jeep stand, a warm delight in the air cold enough to see your breath in. Shortly thereafter, we decided to meet some of their friends and ride further past the city into the hills for more tea and great views. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OorV4iDTHxQ/ThPyN9MGTdI/AAAAAAAAAvc/it3p3HAK8os/s1600/804_0316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OorV4iDTHxQ/ThPyN9MGTdI/AAAAAAAAAvc/it3p3HAK8os/s400/804_0316.JPG" /></a></div><br />Eventually darkness settled in and our drivers were on their way back to Siliguri; we exchanged numbers though with some of the people they introduced us to and we agreed to meet for dinner after Keith and I found a place to stay for the night. Scouting around several places we eventually settled on one of the oldest guest houses (if not the oldest) in town, graced with colonial architecture like tall paned glass windows, creaky wooden floors, and stone fireplaces. Our bed was deeply comfortable too, with thick blankets. <br /><br />Just outside at the plaza-like intersection sporting a big fountain in the middle, we met up again with 3 new friends we had met through our jeep drivers. That evening we went to a restaurant that Keith knew about for dinner. It was late and the power to the area was off so I remember it being quite dark. At the restaurant we sat in a private booth, although there were only 1 or 2 others there in the restaurant anyway. In dim light Keith and I sat on one side and the 3 girls on the other. It was a fascinating exchange; the girls kept silent most of the time but giggled quite a bit. Keith mostly just kept smiling at them and asking periodic questions. I remember soaking up the uniqueness of the situation. Not only were our three friends girls about our age (normally you only come across other guys when traveling in South Asia), but their facial features suggested a heritage more in line with Mongolian ancestry rather than what I had traditionally considered ‘Indian’. Moreover, they were dressed in jeans and makeup, not the traditional female attire and salwars that you usually come across, and they adopted a somewhat reserved demeanor, contrasting with the active and sometimes rambunctious energy that I was used to throughout the rest of the country. There in that dimly lit restaurant with sink water stingingly frigid (again, where are we?), making tiny conversation over Tibetan-influenced food, there was no way I felt like I was still in India, or South Asia for that matter. <br /><br />After a chilly walk back and an invitation for breakfast at one of the girl’s houses the next morning, Keith and I went back to the room, also brisk, like the interior of a locked up quaint museum in the middle of a winter night. After throwing on a few more layers of clothing, crawling into that large cushy bed under those heavy blankets couldn’t have felt sweeter.<br /><br />I had slept so deeply that I was confused when I woke up the next morning, sunrays shining in through the curtained, majestically tall windows. After reminding myself of where I was and finally forcing myself from the warm folds of the bed onto the icy wood floors, Keith emerged from the bathroom having already showered. And stepping into the bathroom afterward, a look of deep concern must have flooded my face when--running my hands under the water filling the bucket--I realized the hot water was gone. All that was left was the water deeply chilled from the cold night before. But I hadn’t showered in a few days, and that evening we were planning on leaving Darjeeling, so I knew it’d be best to take advantage of the shower while I had it. Gritting my teeth and grimacing, like getting into a pool step by step, I poured a little bit of water over part of my arm, then more of my arm, then my shoulder, etc, etc. Shivering and stiff, I soaped myself off and rinsed. After the body is already wet, the rest of the shower isn’t that bad. Suffice it to say, I was happy to put on some clothes afterward. <br /><br />I was stopped in my tracks at the first step out of our room onto the stone walkway that led back to the lobby. A massive mountain view extended forever, with much of Darjeeling visibly looping around part of the range. In the far distance to the right, you could see the mountains extend upward toward the sky becoming white with snow. The highest ice-capped peak among the range is named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Khangchendzonga">Khangchendzonga</a>, India’s highest peak and the world’s third tallest mountain. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMeiofEP-cI/ThP0H6AzSrI/AAAAAAAAAvw/56SI8tD6HUM/s1600/804_0319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMeiofEP-cI/ThP0H6AzSrI/AAAAAAAAAvw/56SI8tD6HUM/s400/804_0319.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M5iLKEcUws0/ThP0lGCyZLI/AAAAAAAAAv4/ydGVqNBGvUA/s1600/804_0320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-M5iLKEcUws0/ThP0lGCyZLI/AAAAAAAAAv4/ydGVqNBGvUA/s400/804_0320.JPG" /></a></div>- Views from the guest house room <br /><br />Our three friends met us and directed us to one of their houses, just a five minute talk away. Descending down some steps, we entered into a concrete home with 2 rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom under the stairwell. Just big enough for the 3-or-so mothers there and several children. The two or three windows of the house were on one face and offered a magnificent bright view of a mountain valley range; the other face of the house was built into the steeply sloping ground. I watched Paro, one of our friends, over her shoulder in the tightly packed kitchen as she prepared the food, frying eggs and tossing spices (like chili and ginger) and chopped tiny potatoes into heated oil. While I was in the kitchen, Keith was in one of the bedrooms talking with the ladies. Of course, when I say talking, I really mean mostly smiling and laughing; Keith and I only knew a few words of Nepali (the common language) and no one really spoke Bangla. No wonder there is a movement in Darjeeling to form a state separate from West Bengal; as you can imagine, the place sure didn’t feel like the same state that Calcutta was in. Actually, the area must be more similar to the neighboring country, Nepal, than to its own state in India. <br /><br />Keith and I were served and ate alone at a table in one room. Breakfast included the spicy, gingery potatoes, a bowl of vegetable soup, a thermos of hot water, and an endless supply of grilled egg sandwiches. Good thing I was hungry. Think of grilled cheese, but with fried egg, and instead of cheese, yak butter. I slathered that stuff on like I didn’t even care. When they saw I liked it, they brought out a whole 2 liter jar of it. The yak butter was firmly solid and brown in color; it had a warm, mellow taste that somehow reminded me a bit of coffee and was accented with a faint caramel-like sweetness. After dumping a chunk onto a fresh warm grilled egg sandwich, it would quickly melt, sending milky brown rivers through the crevasses and down the sides. And the sandwiches kept coming, and kept coming. Keith started to give me his after a while. Again, lucky I was hungry, I must have had about 5 of them. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mb5o05qqo9E/ThP1Tej--rI/AAAAAAAAAwE/FRCU10pIgog/s1600/804_0326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mb5o05qqo9E/ThP1Tej--rI/AAAAAAAAAwE/FRCU10pIgog/s400/804_0326.JPG" /></a></div>- Our breakfast hosts<br /><br />With full bellies wallowing in a heavy greasy richness that I knew would satisfy me for the rest of the day, the 5 of us walked down the street to a temple on a hill top. In a striking convergence between Hindu and Buddhist faiths, incense lingered, deity temples sat, and clanging worship bells chimed all beneath tens of thousands of colorful prayer flags strung all across the area from hundreds of tied ropes having no particular order. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NEVt0zbP9q4/ThP4XulZy8I/AAAAAAAAAws/5F3qF9OK4bM/s1600/804_0322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NEVt0zbP9q4/ThP4XulZy8I/AAAAAAAAAws/5F3qF9OK4bM/s400/804_0322.JPG" /></a></div><br />After observing a puja for a while, we descended the steps and were back on our way through the busy Darjeeling streets, lined most noticeably with gift shops, quaint eateries, and tea shops. I noticed several other foreigners too as we walked to a Tibetan cultural center I had read about in Lonely Planet. Perhaps because of the visible Buddhist aura of the place, I was struck with the desire to gather more information about their Tibetan language classes. From there we walked to the outskirts of Darjeeling’s main area (although temples and random shops dot the main road for tens of kilometers outside of the city) to a famous large Buddhist gompa (basically monastery) where 300 monks reside. As we ascended the steep concrete walkway up to the main gompa, we passed a few robed monks, about our age, scurrying their way down to the main road to catch the smoky, whistling, diesel toy train heading in the direction of main Darjeeling. The main meditation hall at the gompa was the largest and most colorful I’ve ever seen. Being able to fit hundreds of people, the hall consisted of lined desks, a massive Buddha statue (accompanied with various other idols and accessories) on one side, and large square columns in the middle of the hall directing your gaze upward at the towering ceiling. Every inch of ceiling, wall, and pillar space was covered in ornate colorful paintings and mandalas, an accent of red reaching every corner. We spent some time at the gompa’s canteen over fried noodles and tea. At one point I halfway ascended some steps outside to glance at a rooftop soccer game being played amongst maroon-robed energetic teenage monks. I tossed the ball back up at them on my way back down; it had rocketed off the roof, ricocheted off a wall, and finally stopped in the canteen’s courtyard. <br /><br />Back at the main road, we didn’t feel much like paying for a jeep back into town. Our deliberation only lasted for some time; a truck with 2 large black plastic water tanks in the back stopped, and we asked if we could join them into Darjeeling. With only one road having two directions, we knew it was headed where we were going too. Keith and I offered enthusiastically to climb in the back truck bed with the water tanks and leave the space in the actual truck for the girls. Our open-air ride was a blast and offered much better scenery of the mountains and town than you get crammed into a diesel jeep. Briefly taking out the camera to record the ride, I was sure to keep my hand over it; every once in a while at a bump in the road water would slosh its way over the top of the tank and splash us. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1W1kvhcunNE/ThRu3bz-8XI/AAAAAAAAA1o/tpcDPaU78_0/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h09m31s77.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1W1kvhcunNE/ThRu3bz-8XI/AAAAAAAAA1o/tpcDPaU78_0/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h09m31s77.png" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-75yECWPCEgk/ThRvNVmU2bI/AAAAAAAAA1w/7ZdIXfAewEk/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h10m40s187.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-75yECWPCEgk/ThRvNVmU2bI/AAAAAAAAA1w/7ZdIXfAewEk/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h10m40s187.png" /></a></div><br />Back in Darjeeling we stopped for tea at an English breakfast eatery. Before leaving Darjeeling, might as well take advantage of a tea opportunity. Especially when the restaurant is on a rooftop overlooking the area and also offers pistachio/almond milkshakes. On our way back to the house where we had breakfast (having left our bags there), we stopped at a gift store to pick up a string of prayer flags (now gracing my room in Dhaka), and Keith visited an ATM. While waiting, I slipped into a bookstore and found a whole display of Dalai Lama books. After how much I had enjoyed some of his previous books (such as <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Universe-Single-Atom-Science-Spirituality/dp/0316732249">The Universe in a Single Atom</a>) during my time at the 10-day Buddhism and meditation introduction in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dharamsala">Dharamsala</a>, I was keen on picking a few more up. Along with a book about the grand theory of the universe by Stephen Hawking. Paro stopped us at a street food vendor where her grandmother was working. With a beaming aged face, she offered us fried vegetable patties and battered chicken legs. After some heartfelt goodbyes and offering our best wishes for our friends’ beauty school education (of which Paro missed a class or two to roam around with us), we gathered our bags and went to the jeep stand to meet our drivers from the day before who we had called to meet again. The girls accompanied us all the way until we were driving away. As we approached the jeep stand, Paro bought me some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paan">paan</a> for the journey; she had seen me chewing it before. <br /><br />Although Keith and I were the only passengers in the jeep initially (excitedly getting the front row too), we picked up more passengers on our way out of Darjeeling until the jeep was full. Darkness descended and soon all that was visible was the headlit windy, rocky, dusty road in front of us, faint specks of light from the mountain basin to our side from distant houses, and the flashy music player in the dashboard. Rather early on in our 3 hour journey, one of the tires flattened. It only required a 20 minute stop at a roadside wooden repair shack where the wheel’s inside rubber tube was glued and patched in 2 places, the second we found by submerging it under water to see where tiny bubbles came out. <br /><br />Back in Siliguri (and back on level ground after having descended from the mountains), the jeep drivers took us to the city’s bus stand. We were looking for a way to get to the capital of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assam">Assam</a>, Guwahati, in our first bout eastward over the top of Bangladesh. Buses didn’t leave until the next morning, so we got directions to the train station (New Jalpaiguri) and caught a shared auto rickshaw there after bidding our jeep drivers goodbye, who we had become good friends with during our trip. We were able to get a ticket for Guwahati, but they weren’t selling sleeper class. Because it was overnight, we pressed the ‘TTE Officer’ for a class change. After the train had arrived he told us some empty berth numbers and just like that, we had a flat surface to lie on for the night. Although for some reason the man in the berth under me requested that the compartment light stay on because his mother was sick, and despite the cold, I slept quite well. I always seem to sleep well on trains. It also helped that I bundled up with several layers of shirts and several layers of pants. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IWrruHlZXT0/ThP2PuPVqhI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/zb3a-dhRBZk/s1600/804_0327.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IWrruHlZXT0/ThP2PuPVqhI/AAAAAAAAAwQ/zb3a-dhRBZk/s400/804_0327.JPG" /></a></div>- The top of a train extending into the distance, taken from an overhead walkway<br /><br />In the early morning Keith suggested that we get off at the station just before Guwahati, at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kamakhya_temple">Kamakhya</a>, in order to visit a famous but less-foreigner-frequented Hindu holy site, one of the 52 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shakti_Peeth">Shakti Peeths</a>. We heard it was about 7 km from the train station, so we decided against the overpriced auto rickshaws in favor of walking. On our way, a shirtless <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sadhu">Shadhu</a> (Hindu ascetic holy man) approached us and with fiery energy and a booming voice rambled off a monologue about something. Although it was in English I couldn’t understand. He accompanied us on our journey to the temple. After about half an hour of walking, we faced the road leading to the temple area, ascending up a low mountain. With our bags becoming heavy, the bus that we caught up to the top was certainly welcomed. As we got off the bus, it wasn’t difficult to see which way the temple complex was. This place was heavily visited by Hindu pilgrims, and people were channeling themselves to the entrance, up a gently stepped marble walkway lined with colorful shops selling <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Puja_(Hinduism)">puja</a> items like thread bracelets, small clay lanterns, incense, and multitudes of various crumbly sugary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prasad">prasad</a> candies. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DrTAidBLMHo/ThP2nCJfPJI/AAAAAAAAAwY/kmV4Og74YvU/s1600/804_0328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DrTAidBLMHo/ThP2nCJfPJI/AAAAAAAAAwY/kmV4Og74YvU/s400/804_0328.JPG" /></a></div>- Keith and the sadhu<br /><br />Upon entering the temple complex, our shirtless sadhu bolted ahead of us, following the queue line for the main temple but scurrying past the people patiently waiting—of which there were hundreds if not thousands—in a line that was not moving. Although we think he expected us to follow him, neither of us was interested at the time. For the next 3 hours or so Keith and I split up to pursue what we wanted; I remained around the area of the shop where we left our stuff to read, try to nap, watch people, etc., and Keith went into the temple area to take care of business that although I forget now, I remember it being important and having something to with a part of the temple deep underground. <br /><br />After that we explored a bit outside of the main temple part. Descending the marble walkway a bit, Keith’s eye caught some small old temples that he had heard about. I felt like it’d be best for me to wait with our stuff on the stone steps for some time while Keith stepped into the temple. I remember a talkative and engaging girl with chewed white coconut pieces stuck in some of her teeth approach me and ask a few energetic questions. Keith emerged and struck up a conversation with 2 sadhu holy men relaxing in the temple’s courtyard under a tree, preparing their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chillum_(pipe)">chillum</a> pipe. Soon Keith waved me over and we all met. Keith also suggested that I visit the two small stone temples there and explained that they were devoted to egolessness. His tone, not his words, somehow explained the uniqueness of the temples. Both were similarly, but neither had a structure that I’d ever seen a Hindu temple have before. After walking through a main pillared flat stone area, you entered into a dark room to notice dim flickers from faint candlelight about 20-25 feet below ground level deep inside. Carefully descending dozens of steep steps, barely visible, finally you reach the bottom, a hard-to-describe dim chamber with a sitting area, puja accessories, and a small water pool. Suffice it to say, an appropriate-feeling place to think about ego loss. <br /><br />After re-emerging and chatting for some time with the sadhus, the aged sadhu dressed in green pants, an orange sweater jacket, and a yellow bandana suggested we visit a nearby temple dedicated to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganesha">Ganesha</a>. Although maybe eccentric, his simply-hearted friendliness was as much a part of his face as his wrinkles and one-toothed mouth. And his sporty yellow bandana. Taking the recommendation, without any alternate goals in mind, we ate some lunch at a nearby place and found afterward at the Ganesh temple a long motionless line. I felt happy to soak in any experience that we were going to have, and plus our sadhu—sitting at the base of the steps watching our bags—was really excited for us to visit it. Waiting in line reminded us of being at an amusement park, and you could tell how devoted these people were around us to be so patient for so long. At a few points in time the faint mantra chanting and bell clanging from the temple was pierced by desperate screeches, eerily reminiscent of a human baby’s, coming from a young goat being taken to the sacrifice block. No one flinched at the audible blunt chop that ended its cry, although I wondered if any were as uncomfortable as I was. Kamakhya is known for its number of goat sacrifices, a symbol of its venerated god’s fertility, especially during holy times. In the main complex, dozens of goats can be seen roaming around or tied loosely to poles. The majority of Lonely Planet’s commentary on Kamakhya actually is about the sacrifices, and describes the interior of the main temple being warm and sticky with fresh blood. Keith had a disbelieving “what?” look on his face when I told him that, he hadn’t seen that inside the temple; perhaps Lonely Planet was being a bit overdramatic for a flashy tourist pitch. In any case, on some level I think the holy meaning of the sacrifices is lost through the eyes of foreigners and perhaps that’s why the place doesn’t see too many Western guests. <br /><br />Before the main part of the Ganesha temple, we passed the sacrifice block, entrails and skin pushed off to one side, which was back-dropped by hundreds and hundreds of incense sticks poking out of mounds of ash as well as a huge floor space solely dedicated to tiny clay oil lamps that devotees would light. In the main temple, you would go up one by one to a colorful indent in the stone wall at ground level. The entire area was showered with orange flowers and pedals. You’d bow down completely on knees and elbows, forehead at the ground, and a holy man would quickly chant a prayer and slap you on the back with his open hand dusted red from having applied so many powdered red streaks between the eyes of every guest. Stepping past the three seated men chanting in sync, you were outside in the daylight and the show was over. For me an interesting experience, for a devotee probably a lot more deeply meaningful. <br /><br />After thanking our sadhu (who was waiting as patiently as if he’d only been there a few minutes) for watching our bags, we all decided to visit the outskirts of Kamakhya to see more noteworthy temples and spend some time at our sadhu’s home. At his tin-sided one-room home nestled in a small neighborhood amongst trees and a nearby stream, we chatted for some time and eventually decided to cook dinner as darkness was falling. I watched and somewhat helped him prepare the meal, a modest but hearty rice with spiced potatoes cooked over an open wood fire. During that time Keith went with a one-legged jovial sadhu to more temples. After dinner, our sadhus accompanied us back to a small family-owned guest house near the main temple, and after putting our bags down we watched some TV at a nearby house with about 8 of their friends who were training at the temple. Making our leave after a half hour of conversation, our sadhus said they’d meet us again tomorrow morning. Sitting on the bed to relax back at the guest house, I asked Keith about the other temples he visited. He said they were really nice, but he had a strange encounter with another sadhu that was presiding over one of the temples. He said they didn’t exchange many words but he did remember that in a cautionary tone, he told Keith that not everyone was to be trusted here. <br /><br />Keith had misplaced his bag (containing a book and his glasses) at one of the temples, so before bed he decided to go look for it. I remained in the room and read a little bit after chatting for some time with the friendly shopkeepers my age next door. After a few minutes, I answered a knock at the door to greet Vishnu, the 12-or-so year old cleaning boy who had welcomed us into the room when we first came. Vishnu had lots of questions about me and America and had a wide playful smile and carefree giggles during our conversation which somehow progressed because Assamese and Bangla were so similar. He asked if I had any Greenday songs when we talked about listening to music; that was his favorite band. Finding a few on my iPod, I let him listen to a few. I suggested that I go to bed soon because I was tired; Vishnu insisted we both walk to the main temple and continue talking. Enjoying the light-heartedness of our interaction, we accompanied each other to the temple, now much more calm in the night without hundreds of chatty people swarming about. He said it’d be nice to go into the main grounds to roam around; it certainly seemed so compared to the daytime, and I hadn’t really seen much of the main area. I couldn’t figure out why Vishnu insisted he stay behind, perhaps because he wanted the experience to be more reflective for me or perhaps he had some obligation at home. In any case, I walked around some, chatted with some college students hanging out, looked at some goats, and returned back to the room tired enough to fall asleep right away even before Keith returned. <br /><br />In the morning Keith tried to wake up early to beat the crowd to the main temple; he was interested in seeing a part he hadn’t made it to the day before. I poked around the area of our guest house, showering, cutting my nails, talking more with Vishnu who was just as excited and friendly as the day before, meeting the family who owned the guest house, talking a bit with our yellow bandana sadhu who came by before going to his carpentry job, buying incense and mustard oil for our yellow bandana sadhu that we’d gift him later that day, and playing badminton with the adjacent shopworkers and some kids in the street, which for some reason was a complete blast despite the sun being in my eyes. Amidst all that, I gathered my stuff together but noticed that I couldn’t find my iPod. For some reason I wasn’t as concerned as I could have been; perhaps Keith picked it up and it was with his stuff or perhaps it was buried in with my clothes in my bag or in some pocket I forgot to check in my backpack. Vishnu and the son of the family owners flurried about the room searching for it when I told them I thought it was missing, even going through all of my stuff themselves and crawling under the bed. Perhaps it would turn up later.<br /><br />The guest house owner’s wife made a delicious lunch for Keith and me. Keith was still in the temple area, so I ate my portion and talked a bit with the family’s son, Vishnu’s age. Despite how young he was, he was very fluent in English and told me about the good education he was receiving at his private school in Darjeeling (I remember seeing one private school there that looked like a miniature Hogwarts; you can imagine--amidst the mountains--it was quite striking). The wife spoke to me a bit too, but in a disconcerted way, as she saw that Keith and I were spending time with the yellow bandana sadhu, and she advised us against interacting with him, as she said he was not a good man. <br /><br />As I was finishing, Keith returned and started his lunch; Vishnu came in from his room in the back and started chatting with us. When the attention was off of me, I slipped outside and snuck into Vishnu’s room to look around, on the off chance that he had taken my iPod and that it would be somewhere I could find. I had no idea what I’d say if he came into his room to find me going through his stuff. After glancing around, I started checking underneath stuff. Lifting up the cushion to a small chair beside his bed, I found the black case of my iPod. Shocked and breathless, I checked around a little more for the actual device and then heard that people were stirring inside the house; Keith had probably finished lunch. I stepped outside of the room and met Vishnu face to face as he was coming in. Without breaking eye contact, I lifted up the case so that we could both see it. Immediately he started talking and pointing in the direction of our yellow bandana sadhu, doing carpentry work nearby. It seemed he was blaming him. The wife heard the commotion and stepped into the conversation; after seeing my case, with astonished eyes, she started talking fiercely at Vishnu. Assuming that he knew where the device was, I asked him several times “Where?” He went into his room and rummaged around bit, then went into an adjacent room and came out with it. Very sternly and with disappointment in my voice I said several times to him “Very bad, Vishnu, very bad.” Our yellow bandana sadhu came over to see if Keith and I wanted to roam around more. I asked him where he was the night before. “At my house, where we were last night,” he said with a confused look on his face. Then I told him about how Vishnu was accusing him of the theft, I suppose claiming that he was framed. Sincerely and honestly he explained how he was a holy man and how everyday he prays and does puja, claiming that he would never steal like that. By the time I turned around to see where Vishnu was, the wife had gone back into his room and started talking to herself with a great deal of concern in her voice. Vishnu had disappeared, the bars of the bathroom window pushed to one side. We all spent a good deal of time deliberating about what to do and called the owner about it too. I hoped that Vishnu didn’t face punishment that was too severe. If he were found, I imagined that the owner of the house could offer some rather extreme physical reprimands. Explaining that we understood his poor decision and that he was just a kid, we hoped to prevent the wife from thinking that we were wrong in coming to stay at her guest house, which we seemed to suspect due to how many times she apologized. <br /><br />Back in the room I put more pieces together. Perhaps the night before Vishnu didn’t want to roam with me in the temple because he went back to the room to take the iPod. I couldn’t remember if I had locked the door; the temple entrance was just a 10 second walk away from our room. I didn’t notice that it was missing until the morning because I had fallen asleep as soon as I got back afterward. And then a more chilling realization dawned on me. Keith’s sadhu’s omen from the night before. I had never heard a Hindu holy man offer advise like that; more likely it would have been something like don’t eat cows or love one another as your brother or have devotion to your god. Never had I received a cautionary warning about the trust we put in others, and never before in South Asia had the trust I put in others been violated. The coincidence, to many, would be indisputably linked. <br /><br />That afternoon Keith, our yellow bandana sadhu, and I reconvened at our meeting place from the day before, at the courtyard of the egoless temples. Another aged sadhu joined us from yesterday; his clothes were white and his hair was tied in a small ball up on top of his head. He spoke with a great deal of presence and sometimes in conversation his eyes would drift upward, as if seeing nothing at all. After I offered, he also drank a whole liter of water from my bottle without breathing. After some time, our sadhus left and Keith revisited the dark depths of the egoless temple. Content with observing everything around me I came to know the aged rounded temples juxtaposed against the shops and simple but busy activity of Kamakhya town and the children playing games and having carefree territory wars around the courtyard. To simply sit and observe. To sit and think. To be. <br /><br />Darkness descended and Keith emerged from the egoless temple chatting with a few others that had come out with him. After introducing me, his friends started writing down a few places that we could see in Assam. Ready to head out into another adventure, Keith and I boarded a jeep that took us to Guwahati station. The mental images of the egoless temple grounds, and our friendly yellow bandana sadhu, were still sharp in my memory.<br /><br />With the most carefree and high-on-life attitude at the train station, we looked at a map on the wall for a location farther east. Lumding looked nice and central; we could go south from there if we wanted. Lumding also sounded happy. Lumding it is. Again, sorry folks, you can’t reserve a sleeper class ticket for the overnight journey, just a general seating one. No matter, Keith and I knew what to do. We found the TTE office with little difficulty, and the officer told us to return after the train arrived. Although he wasn’t there when it did, we eventually ran into him on the platform and he told us some numbers that were open. <br /><br />I glanced at the ‘to and from’ board on the train’s side and was surprised to see that it had come all the way from Delhi. It must have taken days to get here. Its final destination sounded familiar. Tinsukia. Yes, I had seen that a few hours ago when Keith’s egoless temple friends were jotting some locations in Assam down for us. As we sat down on the train, our spontaneous energy still buzzing, I suggested that we consider taking the train to its last stop. Opening up the Lonely Planet map, we were amazed to see that Tinsukia was at the farthest northeast stretch of Assam. It didn’t even look like trains extended beyond it. We asked where the our-age guy next to us was going. Tinsukia. Do you have family there? No, I’m going to Arunachal Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of the place. Keith’s eyes widened. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arunachal_Pradesh">Arunachal</a> is India’s northeasternmost state, deep in the reaches of its tumorous northeast extension surrounding Bangladesh. The foothills of the Himalayas start at Arunachal’s border and rise higher and higher to the eventual shared border with China. Well, the border isn’t quite shared. China claims Arunachal as its own and Google Maps even lists it as part of the country, its cities listed in Mandarin. Keith explained to me how he’s always thought of Arunachal as this far away neverland, unreachable due to travel time but holding undiscovered natural beauty as if under lock and key, as it’s so unknown, especially by the tourist community. Another reason why it was unreachable and under lock and key crossed my mind. Lonely Planet claims that it’s impossible for foreigners to enter Arunachal without a special permit only issued in major cities. Although the place isn’t dangerous, perhaps India simply wants to keep tourism down in the state in order to keep further political disputes over the region with China at bay. “So what?” said Keith, “If we’re turned away, we can just head back south, there are plenty of other places to see anyway.” His logic made sense. “The worst that could happen is that if we’re caught, we’re turned away and we see someplace else. If we’re not caught, we see Arunachal.” And with that, our itinerary projected itself into neverland. <br /><br />We became good friends with the smiley our-age guy going to Arunachal, asking him about his home and what he thought of the state. He gave us the names of several places too: Roing, Anini, and Tezu, and told us that from Tinsukia you could get a bus to Roing. Soon enough we passed Lumding, up to which our ticket was reserved, and legitimate ticket holders boarded, taking the berths we had. Throwing on several layers of clothes and taking my pillow I scouted around the train for a place to sleep. Before I resolved to sleeping on the floor (an option that I’ve done before but didn’t get away with very clean) I spotted some empty berths in a compartment. The 2 loud middle aged Delhiites were more than happy to offer an extra berth and swarm me with booming conversation. They also gave me a bag of cornflake/golden raisin/spicy tangy masala snack food that is now on the top of my priority list to find if I’m ever back in Delhi. I also interacted with 4 much more timid but giggly <a href="http://www.mapsofindia.com/maps/nagaland/">Nagaland</a>ers on holiday, all at one side of the compartment. If they told me they were from China itself I would have believed them, but Nagaland is another state in NE India, south of Arunachal and even further east than Assam. They said I needed to visit their state, but I knew that a permit was required to enter there as well. <br /><br />That night I slept deeply (again, the train does it for me) and had no qualms about lazily emerging from sleep the next morning and just…relaxing. Tinsukia was the last stop, so as long as the train was moving, we were still on our way. Everyone else in the compartment had gotten off. But then, someone tapped at my leg. A suited official requested my ticket. I can’t remember whether I had my ticket or not, but whether or not I had it at the time I knew that it wasn’t valid anyway, we had only reserved it up to Lumding. Keith is the smoothest talker as they come. Perhaps he’d be able to convince the collector that we didn’t realize the situation (again, what are we going to do with those silly ignorant foreigners?). I directed him toward Keith, a few cars down. Suddenly getting nervous as if we should avoid the collector at all costs, I jaunted my way toward Keith after a few minutes to tell him that they were looking for us. Perhaps the playful excitement of being where we ‘shouldn’t’ at the prospect of entering Arunachal Pradesh had already absorbed itself into my attitude. Keith could tell I had too much energy when I scurried up to him, hood covering my head. I stood for some time by the doorway, watching Assam pass by. After some time I returned to the compartment; the collector had come by and Keith had paid the penalty fee, amounting to about as much as the ticket would have cost to Tinsukia from Guwahati anyway. <br /><br />The Tinsukia station was simple and sounded a jingle whenever an announcement was made that I wish I could remember because its happy tune put the largest smile on my face. Saying goodbye to the our-age guy on the train who first gave us the idea of going to Arunachal, we made our way to the bus station and got a ticket to Roing that would leave at noon, about 3 hours later. Keith had some fried egg and warm flatbread, akin to an egg taco, for breakfast at a small nearby food place and told me about his first trip to India, including his overnight stay in a slum beside the Taj Mahal and his deathly illness in a desert town in Rajasthan during one of the hottest times of the year. That morning we decided to split up again, Keith went to hang out at a temple in town and I explored around a bit, visiting an ATM, trying to phone the parents at a phone booth (internet was nowhere to be found), finding new headphones (I hadn’t pushed Vishnu to return the headphones, one ear was broken anyway), searching for more tissues (my nose was riddled with congestion and our tissue stock was already low), and conversing with some middle-aged men at a tea stall (Bangla was actually still understandable this far in Assam’s northeast). After eating an orange and getting some paan for the journey, Keith and I met up on time and settled into our tiny bus seats. As we exited the city I started listening to some music that I had had playing in my head the past few days: Renaissance and Baroque excerpts from my Music History I class last year at Muhlenberg. <br /><br />Rice paddies and wide leafed trees suddenly gave way—as well as the road—to a massive grey dry dusty expanse. The bus rocked severely back and forth in the dust divots and uneven surface of this anomalous landscape. I remember the bus window frame jolting and creaking separately from the window itself at some points, suggesting that the structural integrity of the bus frame had really weakened over time. Keith and I said nothing. We both knew we were in a very different land. We also didn’t know if we had crossed into Arunachal Pradesh yet. When I saw that people weren’t looking (I hate drawing attention with cameras) I took out the video camera to try to capture the strange sensation of riding on a bus through an area comprised entirely of dry dust, with no road to speak of either. How did the driver even know where he was going? Soon after I started recording, Keith lowered it with one of his hands, murmuring to me that we should keep a low profile. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mskRkwMCodE/ThRz0lIQDRI/AAAAAAAAA2s/lNVIZhEjgQE/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h35m06s196.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mskRkwMCodE/ThRz0lIQDRI/AAAAAAAAA2s/lNVIZhEjgQE/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h35m06s196.png" /></a></div><br />The bus stopped at a river, small enough to see the other side. It made sense now, the dusty desert was a massive river basin and it was dry season. In summer as the Himalayan snows would melt, massive runoff would probably expand the river to fill the whole basin, so wide that we must have already been driving 20 or 30 minutes to reach its middle. The bus wasn’t going across, but everything else was. Everyone piled out and men started taking down the massive burlap sacks that were tied to the roof. You could see through the burlap that inside were large amounts of onions, garlic, potatoes, and the like. The remoteness of where we were going struck me even further, its food having to be supplemented via the roofs of passenger buses. On the boat I noticed that Keith has talking with two giggling girls; on the other side of the river he introduced them to me: Selma and Pinky. Selma’s older brother, Rohim (Pinky’s husband,) also met us. They were going home to Roing because they had spent a day in Tinsukia shopping for new clothes to celebrate the approaching new year. Getting back on a new bus, having been loaded with all our stuff from the old bus now on the other side of the river, Keith told me that they invited us to stay the night at their home. <br /><br />It was a good thing we now had a place to stay, darkness was approaching and we still had a while to go to get to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roing">Roing</a>. The dusty basin gave way to fields of yellow flowers and periodic trees. Snow-capped Himalayas were hazily visible in the distance, dividing the yellow flower fields from the sun-setting sky. In time, outside grew completely black aside from periodic lights from houses or shops. What was out there? I remember smelling faint wafts of smoke probably from campfires burning some kind of wood I’ve never smelled smoke from before. It affected me so strangely, its dry and simple smell, combined with gusts of cold wind from outside, steeped me in strong feelings somewhat described as loneliness, independence, remoteness, uncertainty, and self-reliance. Such a feeling somehow wasn’t of me either but of the whole area, and it was coupled with the deep unknown of a black and legally-forbidden area. <br /><br />I put up my hood and rested my head on the icy window. The bus stopped and the lights came on. I didn’t give a notice until stern voice from the aisle next to our seats asked for a pass. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I glimpsed to see a uniformed man with Mongolian features facing us. I turned slightly to keep my face out of sight and let my body sink into the gloomy possibility that perhaps our bout in neverland was now finished. Keith’s calmness and gentleness was soothing. “What pass?” He gave the man his passport and he started flipping through it. After a few seconds, he returned the passport and continued checking the passengers for what I think were inter-line passes. Whether or not they were required by Indian nationals, it appeared as if some people offered them and others just shook their heads. Before we knew it, he was off the bus and we were moving again. Keith and I exchanged looks of confined astonishment. Was that the border? Are we now in Arunachal Pradesh? Was he looking for the tourist pass that we actually didn’t have? Why didn’t he press the issue? Was it because he didn’t want to go through the trouble of whatever followed passlessness? Was it because he thought Keith was Indian (people think he’s Kashmiri all the time, especially when he’s bearded), and perhaps because he didn’t see my face and hair he assumed we weren’t foreigners? Had he not seen a US passport before and therefore not understood that it was foreign? Did we even need a pass?<br /><br />Questions continued to swirl in my head for some time. Suddenly Pinky, Selma, and Rohim stood up and with smiles indicated that it was time to get off. A few seconds after that, the five of us were standing along the silent road in still darkness, soon thereafter following Selma and Pinky’s excited directions through a path off the road and to a fence bordering the grounds of where they lived. The moon was absent, but the stars shone in multitude across the sky. <br /><br />Their house is part of a ladies hostel compound for a technical institute, as Selma and Rohim’s mother is the groundskeeper. Although there was lots of space and several single story hostel areas were connected together on the grounds, no one was present except their family because it was holiday break for the institute. Their house, made totally of cement, contained 2 bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom, a shower room, and a multipurpose seating/eating/chopping-up-chicken-for-dinner room in the middle. Because the power was off, our only initial idea of the place was via my mobile flashlight, a few candles, and a single really bright light bulb in the bedroom where we all were welcomed. Selma’s rosy-cheeked mother brought out orange and apple slices for us and--because the ambient temperature was shiveringly cold--it was accompanied with warm water. I remember asking if I could shower (being quite dirty from our journey), but the family refused to let me, as it was so cold. Selma in no time began talking with us, so excited that she’d stutter over words. Pinky sat in front of us all on the ground and would frequently offer laughter to the conversation with great volume. On the other bed at our side sat Rohim, his younger brother, their mother, and Dibra, a 19 year old Nepali boy who was a family friend. Dibra sat quietly to the side, a delicate grin constantly on his face rimmed by his grey hooded sweatshirt, and he would periodically offer friendly gazes at us as well as discreet comments of disbelief to the family that we were actually there. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zny3kbQG8IE/ThRxd2-6_mI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/VBdWYwVtWF8/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h36m29s136.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="112" width="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zny3kbQG8IE/ThRxd2-6_mI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/VBdWYwVtWF8/s200/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h36m29s136.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b825gt6Ltzo/ThRxuNyo0aI/AAAAAAAAA2g/va9DR-c_qGQ/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h38m52s199.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="112" width="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b825gt6Ltzo/ThRxuNyo0aI/AAAAAAAAA2g/va9DR-c_qGQ/s200/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h38m52s199.png" /></a></div>- Selma ..................and Pinky<br /><br />After talking in detail with each other about the days happenings, the conversation moved out the back door and around a small campfire that was being used to cook chicken legs. After being seasoned with spices (including a tasty portion of cilantro), the chicken legs were unbelievably delicious; I remember Keith and I actually laughing at each other in disbelief. Keith couldn't remember more tasty chicken in his lifetime. Shortly thereafter, dinner was served, consisting of ginger-accented boiled vegetables, rice, and a chicken and potato dish. After I bundled up that night in almost all the clothes I had (a comical sight for the family), Keith and I took the bed in the first bedroom and fell asleep with quiet smirks on our faces combined with a lingering astonishment--we had actually made it to neverland. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-txFRTV41Ic0/ThQ8G5XP0MI/AAAAAAAAAw4/M7EbdhCr_W8/s1600/804_0331.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-txFRTV41Ic0/ThQ8G5XP0MI/AAAAAAAAAw4/M7EbdhCr_W8/s400/804_0331.JPG" /></a></div>-Karim and Dibra<br /><br />The next morning after a breakfast of ramen-like noodles and fried rice, Rohim, Karim (Rohim’s brother), Dibra, Keith, and I set out to explore some of the surrounding area. We walked for 3 kilometers alongside the main road to get to the central part of Roing, a walk that was just slightly uphill the whole way. The foothills of the Himalayas rose up in front of us, just beyond Roing. Roing itself is a small town, easily walkable from one end to the other. The colors that the town makes me think of are grey and light blue; perhaps from the buildings’ paint. After stopping briefly for some biscuits and paan, we took an auto rickshaw to a flat rocky road that led to a metal bridge crossing a stony river basin maybe 30 or 40 feet under the bridge at its deepest point. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qs90JNCJfoY/ThQ9BAAOihI/AAAAAAAAAxE/YPR3jl0Dh2g/s1600/804_0332.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qs90JNCJfoY/ThQ9BAAOihI/AAAAAAAAAxE/YPR3jl0Dh2g/s400/804_0332.JPG" /></a></div><br />As we approached the basin, dusty stones at our feet gave way to a view that made my jaw drop. Even though we were at the level of the bridge, the small river, maybe averaging 20 feet in width, that ran under the bridge was completely 100% crystal clear. The rocks within the river were just as visible as those outside of it. I scurried down the steep boulder-lined basin to get a closer look (although the others were easily faster than me; I wasn’t used to scaling large rocks). My astonishment never ceased. It didn’t take Keith and me much time to decide that we’d go swimming. It also didn’t take Keith much time to declare it his favorite river of all time. In nothing but underwear, the water was piercingly cold but easily adjusted to once you were submerged. Plus the shocking beauty was gripping enough to take your mind off any distraction. Obviously completely pure (coming from the mountains, untampered with), and with Rohim’s encouragement, I took several gulps from my hands and as I swam. The river was only maybe 4 feet deep in the middle and was lined with pebbles of all sizes, from fine to big enough to lay on. Swimming underneath the surface--even without goggles--the visibility extended all the way up the river to where miniature rapids descended, about 60 feet away. Keith and I found small clay lamps in the river (probably from some puja) that we salvaged and now use in our rooms in Dhaka. Swimming up to the small rapids, I ducked completely underwater and let the current carry me down the stream to another set of small rapids where Keith was lying flat on a large rock, relaxing under the sun. The sensation as I glided in the current and glanced all around the stream’s pebbled bed was that of flying gently. Rohim, Karim, and Dibra didn’t get in but stood smiling widely as they observed my continual disbelief and out-loud laughter that I could possibly be a part of nature this pristine. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mCiqnoqPIK8/ThQ9_oKjFoI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/dewBJo412qQ/s1600/804_0334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mCiqnoqPIK8/ThQ9_oKjFoI/AAAAAAAAAxQ/dewBJo412qQ/s400/804_0334.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZgdancBcAZg/ThQ_f_RcEmI/AAAAAAAAAxg/HbNTAFQXidk/s1600/804_0333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZgdancBcAZg/ThQ_f_RcEmI/AAAAAAAAAxg/HbNTAFQXidk/s400/804_0333.JPG" /></a></div><br />Our experiences of nature continued, as after drying off we ascended a sharply steep series of hills and eventually made it to a still lake that reflected the dense trees surrounding it. From there Rohim led the way on a small walk through the forest, clearing denser portions of our path with a machete. Upon entering the forest, he spotted some berries that looked like small hard green raspberries and—making a long ‘o’ shape with his mouth and raising his eyebrows suggesting the berries’ importance—explained to us how they were rather rare to find and that they had various benefits if eaten, such as treatment for coughing. Keith had one as we continued forward and after some time mentioned to me over and over how he couldn’t wait to see what my reaction would be if I had one later. As he tried to describe the taste, my curiosity grew. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Re-ZEhyU50/ThRAQqP6ptI/AAAAAAAAAxo/DlIYO3FBmbc/s1600/804_0336.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4Re-ZEhyU50/ThRAQqP6ptI/AAAAAAAAAxo/DlIYO3FBmbc/s400/804_0336.JPG" /></a></div><br />Soon thereafter we came across a large patch of banana trees. Rohim explained to us how the huge leaves could be used as plates for food and that we’d use them for our New Year’s dinner that evening. Dibra and Karim began collecting them and rolled them up into a large bundle. After the banana tree patch, there was a small opening in the forest’s density that you could peer through if you climbed up a small hill. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5d6lbptx-00/ThR0qhB0iMI/AAAAAAAAA20/a6Fzf98A5a0/s1600/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h43m30s136.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5d6lbptx-00/ThR0qhB0iMI/AAAAAAAAA20/a6Fzf98A5a0/s400/vlcsnap-2011-07-06-09h43m30s136.png" /></a></div><br />The view was magnificent, the Himalayan foothills rising up on the right side, expansive green, flat, treed land to the left, and our crystal river winding its way in between. Although the river was very narrow, it rested in a grey rocky basin that had a much larger width—at some parts maybe even hundreds of feet. Because it was winter season, the river was small and clear, but during the summer when the snow from the Himalayas melt, the river swells massively, even enveloping the bridge we had walked over. Of course the rains from the rainy season also pay their contribution. It was surreal to imagine this river as one of the initial tributaries to the large rivers in Bangladesh that eventually empty into the Bay of Bengal through the delta. The Buriganga River in Dhaka is certainly not as pure as this water was to say the least. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcWSOiAIeDc/ThRA-TQim-I/AAAAAAAAAxw/SuPwtceq2b4/s1600/804_0337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NcWSOiAIeDc/ThRA-TQim-I/AAAAAAAAAxw/SuPwtceq2b4/s400/804_0337.JPG" /></a></div><br />As we descended back to the path that surrounded the tree-reflecting lake I remember a high-pitched electronic sound ringing with a constant tone as if coming from a broken speaker. Although it sounded like an electronic appliance, Rohim told us that is was being made by birds in the trees. When we got to the path, Rohim had found some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_gooseberry">amla fruit</a> on the forest floor that we all shared. Amla was also available in Dhaka (although arguably not as fresh); they have the diameter of a quarter and have green skin, juicy apple-like flesh, and a large pit. The initial taste is extremely bitter and sour, but after 30 seconds or so it becomes simply sweet, catalyzed by taking a sip of water (a 'magic' trick the Bangla teachers in Dhaka had shown us).<br /><br />I was reminded of the mysterious green raspberry. I popped one in my mouth and walked up a hill beside the lake to pee. The initial taste after biting into it was pungent and spicy. “Unique,” I thought, “but not quite the sensational experience that Keith suggested.” After a few more seconds, what felt like a slight buzzing sensation grew in my mouth. Freezing in my tracks at the strange sensation, I felt the buzz grow into a churning vibration throughout all my mouth’s surfaces. I scurried down the hill half laughing and half shouting. Our friends grinned but also looked slightly confused; Keith was beaming at me with excited eyes as if to say “Didn’t I tell you! Isn’t it crazy!” My face’s astonishment must have been extreme; soon enough it felt as if there were hundreds of furry caterpillars crawling about in my mouth with millions of tickly hairs swirling about. I wanted my friends in Dhaka to experience the magic green raspberry too, but realized their pungency probably only remained fully fresh for a limited time after picking. For myself then for the next day I asked Rohim to find a few more, and using the small clay lamps I found in the clear Himalayan river water for storage, I walked away with 5 magic green raspberries. <br /><br />Rohim told us about the many more fruits and herbs that could be found deeper in the jungle. Having grown up in Roing and having a mother from the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adi_people">Adi</a> tribal group, Rohim has learned through the years what is edible, what is not, and what all the potential uses for them are. If we set aside a few days for hiking, we would return with so many varieties that several bags could be filled. Keith remarked that their many medical properties, too, were probably largely unknown to those outside this area. Although Keith and I had planned to travel to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anini">Anini</a>, remaining in Roing looked like a great opportunity too. We had initially heard about Anini from that guy we met on the train to Tinsukia. The major group of people in Anini is the Adi tribe who has an appearance, dress, customs, and language unique to its portion of Arunachal Pradesh; the state itself contains hundreds of tribal groups and separate languages. Anini is one of the last towns in eastern Arunachal to trickle off as you ascend northward higher through the Himalayas and eventually to the Chinese border. It would take an entire day by jeep just to reach there from Roing, but Keith and I both thought the experience would be worth it. In any case, we knew that we wanted to spend as much time as possible here now that we had actually entered Arunachal, so we came to the conclusion after only a short while that we’d try to get in touch with our new high school in Dhaka to request our first 2 days off, giving us an added 4 days of travel time with the weekend. Plus we knew the journey back to Bangladesh could take days anyway; it was safest any way we looked at it to have more time at our disposal. Two days in neverland versus two days at school—even though they were our first two—seemed pretty disproportionate. Rohim found a softball-sized fruit growing high in a tree near us, and Dibra knocked it loose by chucking a rock at it. The inside had a citrus fruit consistency but was white; it tasted like a sweet version of grapefruit, orange, and lemon all combined. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dXp-GthHF4M/ThRB8mgkgeI/AAAAAAAAAx8/t2qdYNdG9Xg/s1600/804_0338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dXp-GthHF4M/ThRB8mgkgeI/AAAAAAAAAx8/t2qdYNdG9Xg/s400/804_0338.JPG" /></a></div><br />Climbing some steps leading up a hill next to the tree-reflecting lake, we made our way up to a gazebo perched up on a hilltop overlooking the vast river basin, green lands extending into the distance, and a setting sun. A dozen of Rohim’s childhood friends were up there celebrating the New Year’s Eve with bottles of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kingfisher_(beer)">Kingfisher beer</a> and bags of Kurkure, the spicy Indian version of Cheetos. We spent a good amount of time there talking, and afterwards we got a ride in their jeeps from the lake down the hills to a massive bridge where they would frequently visit. Evidently some perform tricks on motorcycles too; one of them accelerated abruptly to lift up his front end and braked sharply to kick his back wheel up. After the short drive back to Roing, darkness having fallen and chilly air whipping in through the window, Keith and I ducked into several international phone booths before we found one that actually worked. Luckily, Brother Leo (St. Joseph High School’s principal) answered. Also luckily, in his usual warm and content manner, he said that it would be fine to miss the first two days of school and was much more interested in what we were up to rather than being concerned over reasons for our absence. We then also followed up with an email to our contact at the embassy to make sure that our grounds were covered for our extended holiday. While Keith checked the rest of his email, I stepped outside of the internet café and saw Dibra and Karim with a sizeable white box. It had a cake inside that we would cut at midnight to celebrate New Year’s. They said that Rohim had bought it—he was off somewhere at that time getting food for dinner. Seeing an opportunity to somehow pay the family back, I gave them the price of the cake and instructed to give it to Rohim. I knew if I gave it to Rohim himself he’d refuse it. While the three of us were waiting for Keith and Rohim, I remember noting the advertisements on the internet café window for X Box games like the terror-thriller 'Saw' as well as the good amount of business the small caged alcohol corner shop was getting. After our group reassembled, we walked back down the main road from Roing in the night’s thick blackness pierced by periodic car lights and the flashlights of our mobile phones.<br /><br />On the way back home we stopped by Dibra’s home on the way and met his family, including his brother, parents, aunt, and a few friends that lived nearby. They must have to contend with incredibly cold temperatures especially at night; the walls were only either tin or straw covered in dried mud, all supported with a wooden framework. Although we didn’t share too many words of the same language, they were all more than happy to teach a few key phrases in Nepali as well as share cups of chai and piles of puri (fried flatbread). Their excitement never ceased, and they requested that we come back the next day.<br /><br />Upon returning back to Rohim and Selma’s house, I remember being struck with deep fatigue—probably from swimming and hiking. After along nap, it was already about an hour before midnight. Our dinner that night consisted of chicken, fish, vegetables, and rice and was topped off with a yellow and red icing cake that read “Happy New Year.” <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tKJ0VYIbLpM/ThR38YmnWTI/AAAAAAAAA3I/K6HpGvppTjU/s1600/Arunachal%2B%252811%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tKJ0VYIbLpM/ThR38YmnWTI/AAAAAAAAA3I/K6HpGvppTjU/s400/Arunachal%2B%252811%2529.png" /></a></div><br />Despite how spread out and sparse the area was, I remember hearing distant shouts and hollers from people outside celebrating. After cutting the cake we sang songs from their Christian song book. About 20% of Arunachal’s population is Christian, having been introduced into the area through missionaries. The type of Christianity I observed most of there (including many churches) were of Baptist and Revivalist flavors. Although Keith recognized the tunes of some of their songbook songs, everything was sung in Hindi or Adi, their tribal language. Interestingly, Adi language (having descended through time from Chinese and Tibetan) is written with English characters, probably because there was no script before the English influence. Amongst the songs, Selma would offer lengthy prayers, her eyes closed with intention. Speaking rapidly in Adi, she churned through her prayers, at times thrusting her speech with great bursts energy and volume. Pinky and Rohim sat intently, eyes closed, murmuring and at times vocalizing their agreement with the prayer through proclamations like “Lord, Jesus,” and “Hallelujah.” After singing and praying, Keith taught a song that was one of his favorites (and his father’s—a former Baptist minister) called “I Surrender All.” Rohim was especially interested in it, and we spent a good deal of time reviewing the melody and lyrics. Offering my religious musical input as well, I sang selected favorites that I had memorized from the green Lutheran Book of Worship liturgy. “Let the Vineyards Be Fruitful, Lord,” (from both settings two and three) have since become the songs that I share with students at St. Joseph’s if they ask me to sing too. <br /><br />Although we stayed up late and had long conversations about religion and what it means to us, I was up the next morning early enough to quickly walk into town by 10:30 am (midnight on the east coast). None of the international calls I made went through unfortunately, so I think I sent an email to the parents, and I remember picking up a few pastries from a nearby bakery. After coming back home, we all sat around the campfire outside the kitchen; Pinky was boiling a spinach-like leafy vegetable. Mostly we deliberated over what exactly to do during the day or two that Keith and I had left. Selma had gone to church the night before for the New Year’s service and said that her pastor told her that the road pass to Anini was blocked with a landslide (or was it an avalanche?). Additionally, helicopter services (which Keith and I had been planning on making avail of—a 12 hour jeep ride through the mountains is only about a half hour helicopter flight) were booked for the next few months. The road blockage complication for those in Anini must be terribly problematic, not only for people that need to get back to a Roing and subsequently larger cities, but also for things like food. In any case, that was no longer an option for Keith and me. We eventually decided (with Keith and my assurance that we have adventuresome sprits) that Rohim and one of his friends would guide Keith and me through a portion of the nearby jungle in the Himalayan foothills, that we’d find a place to camp for the night, and that then we’d return the next day. Selma, although sure that she wouldn’t be able to handle the hike, insisted that we go to experience the nature and to enjoy lots of “jungly fruits.” <br /><br />I stuffed my backpack full with just about every piece of clothing I had, and the four of us set out past Dibra’s house and onto a dirt road that would take us past some sparse village buildings before entering into solely forest. We had begged Dibra and his family to let him come with us, but due to his family’s demand, he remained at home. I remember falling into melancholy after he apologized that he couldn’t tag along. I was excited at the opportunity to spend more time with Dibra during our remaining time left; his flavor of genuine, relaxed personality, as well as his contagious smile, were things that I hadn’t come across before in the same way. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GzRG1RVIZkY/ThRK1TuZCxI/AAAAAAAAAzU/PkFVeNJsDTs/s1600/804_0348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="225" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GzRG1RVIZkY/ThRK1TuZCxI/AAAAAAAAAzU/PkFVeNJsDTs/s400/804_0348.JPG" /></a></div>The path emptied out onto a several hundred foot wide flat rocky river basin. It was dry except for a small stream in some places, but undoubtedly would be completely flooded later in the year with the melting mountain snow and ice. After the basin, the path started ascending gently as it led into the jungle. We passed the abandoned tarp tent of a worker who appeared to be in the middle of building 2 large concrete water storage tanks in the ground. For better scenery, we set up our camp 5 minutes further in a small opening right off the path enclosed by the leaves of trees and started to gather firewood. Rohim’s friend and I also went into a nearby orange plantation where we brought back probably over a dozen oranges, a large green papaya, and a few pots that we found in an abandoned harvester’s hut. By the time darkness had fallen, we already had a fire lit for warmth, another for cooking, a space for laying (flattened by dozens of massive banana tree leaves), and were diving into the fresh oranges we had picked, exploding with juicy flavor. We also chose this location because it was near a small stream which Rohim used to clean our utensils and wash the vegetables. <br /><br />Unfortunately the light drizzle that started as darkness settled in turned into a constant rain. One of our fires went out, but we were able to keep the other lit and use it for cooking as well as warmth, as wetness compounded the shivering coldness that eventually settled in. To everyone’s delight, Rohim’s papaya, eggplant, ginger stew (accented with one or two of Selma’s “jungly fruits” that Rohim came across somewhere) and warm boiled rice turned out delicious, using banana tree leaves for plates. Rohim himself was proud, having never really cooked before, let alone in the middle of the rainy jungle. <br /><br />Very cold and wet, we decided that it would be best to occupy that tarp tent for the night a few minutes down the path. The four of us fit very well inside, and after bundling up with every layer of clothing I had brought, I rested very thankful that we had found someplace dry to spend the night. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UlhtAhf2d_s/ThRDNrLgH6I/AAAAAAAAAyI/YrpzKHyHbK0/s1600/804_0341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UlhtAhf2d_s/ThRDNrLgH6I/AAAAAAAAAyI/YrpzKHyHbK0/s400/804_0341.JPG" /></a></div><br />Keith and I both had to get up a few times in the night to pee (I think that cold ambient temperature contributes to this), but nevertheless I slept well into the late morning the next day when we were greeted with the man building the 2 concrete water tanks. For whatever reason, he didn’t need to stay in his tent the previous night and was happy that we used it to stay out of the rain and cold. He also brewed us all a pot of tea which we drank out of cut hollow bamboo stalks. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ddHDtJl7YWY/ThREcHKx2hI/AAAAAAAAAyU/pPx01i-NXAw/s1600/804_0342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ddHDtJl7YWY/ThREcHKx2hI/AAAAAAAAAyU/pPx01i-NXAw/s400/804_0342.JPG" /></a></div><br />After tea, Keith and the others smoked a round of their <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beedi">biris</a>, small cigarettes that consist simply of tobacco rolled up in a tobacco leaf. Keith likes them because they remind him of the forest. With a lot of ground to cover, we packed up our things and set off further down the path, passing our old--now very damp--campsite along the way. The path followed alongside the stream that we used the night before which continued and continued as far as we hiked. Once or twice we saw a series of concrete tanks built into the stream that Rohim said were for filtering, especially during the summer and rainy seasons when the water becomes more dirty. Soon we had views of the larger face of the mountain ascending in front of us and to our sides, including a beautiful but rather alarming sheer white rock face that climbed vertically up the mountain, likely the result of a previous landslide. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oYd5VaLaSjI/ThRF4akd0eI/AAAAAAAAAyg/6VBcUA0sp_4/s1600/804_0354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oYd5VaLaSjI/ThRF4akd0eI/AAAAAAAAAyg/6VBcUA0sp_4/s400/804_0354.JPG" /></a></div><br />Rohim’s friend bounced off the path to explore if it were possible to hike in a different direction. Indeed it was, and we climbed dirt that was so steep that at times there were portions higher than me that were almost completely vertical. Tree roots and the stalks of plants became crucial foot and hand holds throughout our hike. Soon the dirt faces opened out onto rolling hills that extended through a large valley, largely occupied by orange trees, between two mountains. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zo-xdj-gpXo/ThRI8MQJIoI/AAAAAAAAAzA/jooHHktxlDg/s1600/804_0350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zo-xdj-gpXo/ThRI8MQJIoI/AAAAAAAAAzA/jooHHktxlDg/s400/804_0350.JPG" /></a></div><br />We climbed higher up the valley, snacking on oranges along the way as well as several things Rohim came across, such as the flower used as natural chewing gum—with so many fine tiny pedals, it would form a long lasting hairy herb-tasting ball in your mouth if chewed. We also found a vine-like plant on the ground with furry golden-yellow berries that elicited the same vibrant-swirling-hairy caterpillar circus-spicy mouth buzz that the magic green raspberries had from the day before. Taking a break and turning about, we gazed out over the vast valley containing avatar-like lush green scenery accented with hundreds of orange trees, a massive viney tree in the middle, mountains on either side (including the sheer white rock face), and green flatlands extending into the distance beyond the small opening between the two mountain ranges. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4nqElLe33Mk/ThRKIyEqvnI/AAAAAAAAAzM/q-32MiTC-7k/s1600/804_0353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4nqElLe33Mk/ThRKIyEqvnI/AAAAAAAAAzM/q-32MiTC-7k/s400/804_0353.JPG" /></a></div><br />Enjoying the view too much to continue on immediately, Rohim gathered a few fresh ripe papayas from the trees and cut them open with his machete for us all to share. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-go7GCgPkEGU/ThRIWJQ-cWI/AAAAAAAAAy4/Kv6zvacF-uo/s1600/804_0355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-go7GCgPkEGU/ThRIWJQ-cWI/AAAAAAAAAy4/Kv6zvacF-uo/s400/804_0355.JPG" /></a></div><br />Higher and higher we went, the terrain getting steeper still as we ascended past the valley and into forested area. Rohim gathered some more edible finds for us, including the moist interior of a plant stalk that had the consistency of a soft nut, a few different types of tree nuts, and a stringy tough plant stalk that, if gnawed on, housed juices tasting like ginger and lemon popsicle. When I felt a piercing fiery sensation on my arm, I hurriedly rolled up my sleeve to find a large ant. Even though I tried to brush it off, it continued to cling tightly. I tried to smush it amongst the cloth, but it remained unharmed. It continued to crawl about, and fearful that it would bite me again, I grabbed it between my thumb and index finger. These were not sissy ants. As I pressed my fingers together, we made eye contact. Yes, its eyes were large enough to see, as well as its spiny, curled pincers which spread wide open at me as if to snarl viciously one last time. Seeing my agitation, Rohim hurried over. He offered an excited “Oh!”, picked one up off of a log, tore its abdomen off, and popped it in his mouth. “It’s really tasty, try one!” With hesitation I ate one too. It was worth getting past the mental reluctance; despite its small size, it was indeed very flavorful and explosively tart.<br /><br />After just about reaching the top of that portion of mountain range, Keith found a large empty snail shell to garnish the top tip of his bamboo walking stick, we took some rest in the massive ground divot formed by a fallen tremendous tree, and started rounding the mountain face in descent. It didn’t take us long to realize that the steepness of the mountain face we were trying to descend got out of control. Very quickly I realized that this was by far and away the most advanced terrain I had ever tried to negotiate, and very quickly I feared that I was being pushed to the limits of my comfort zone. An adventure was what we wanted, and indeed an adventure was what we got. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aBG9f5EF39s/ThR57ivmW0I/AAAAAAAAA3c/m6TdKqecLkU/s1600/Arunachal%2B%252812%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aBG9f5EF39s/ThR57ivmW0I/AAAAAAAAA3c/m6TdKqecLkU/s400/Arunachal%2B%252812%2529.png" /></a></div><br />Even though there were portions of hill that were so steep you could only slide down them, things got steeper still, and with trees becoming more sparse and the dirt becoming dangerously slippery due to dryness, we decided to head back up the face, continuing to round the mountain, in search of a safer way down. Perhaps it was my high center of gravity, or perhaps my sandals that kept slipping off my feet, but of our group of four, I was having the most difficult time negotiating the terrain. Keith scurried up past me to search for the best path for us, every so often some pebbles rolling down the hill in his wake, and Rohim and his friend remained with me to assist my ascent. By this point in time I was at a simplified yet potent mentality state, where I had completely lost any priority of remaining clean in favor of ensuring my safety by wallowing around with my belly on the ground and clawing into the dirt. The dozens of ants that scurried around and occasionally offered fiery sharp bites would have normally made me flee in aversion, but avoiding them by staying off the ground was an impossibility. In addition to my sincerest efforts, my ascent also required both Rohim and his friend (neither struggling like I was) offering advice on which tree root to grab and when, digging foot holes, jabbing the hill face with sturdy sticks for foot support, and offering occasional physical support by pulling me up when they had a strong enough stance to hold both our weights. Although I felt as if I were crippled, Keith had somehow managed to scale the hill face, machete in hand, and clear out thorns, vines, and bushery. By the time I had reached the top, my mouth was stern and silent, having been pushed beyond a limit I hadn’t before crossed. I was also a bit jealous to have witnessed Keith’s mountaineering ease, allowing him to relax in the lap of a large tree and smoke one of his tobacco biris while I struggled. Underneath all my angry and scared-stiff mental baggage swirling about, I could sense an extremely deep satisfaction and feeling of triumph that I had allowed myself to be pushed so far, emerging on the top of a mountain with a more full understanding of what I am capable of. <br /><br />The subsequent decent was perhaps less steep, but the most helpful element was the lush moist mud/dirt that you’d sink into as you slid when it was too steep to walk. Several times you had to resort to sliding sitting down; by that time my pants were a complete mess anyway. A refreshing drizzle started and we followed the path carved out by a small rocky stream on much of our way down. Eventually the jungle opened up to a cleared field covered with low grass and small shrubbery, an area evidently having been cleared recently for cultivation purposes. The grade sloped downward gently as we continued through the field, the mountain we had spent the day on rising up behind us. The field was covered with the fuzzy golden berry vine. Popping in several fuzzy golden berries at a time, the overpowering pungency, spiciness, and swirling buzziness that sent the whole mouth in a frenzy of whirling tingles was a rare and novel sensation that neither Keith nor I could get over. <br /><br />Ahead of me, Rohim inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, stopped in his tracks, and bend down with a concerned face to take his shoe off. He told me that he felt a small sting on his foot; after taking his sock off, a small leech was revealed that hadn’t quite taken hold to his skin yet. Having never seen a leech up close before, with alarm I bent down to my own feet, realizing that they were exposed through my sandals. Indeed, there were a few squirming about that hadn’t yet drawn blood. “We need to keep moving,” said Rohim. “It will be more easy for them to find you if you stand still.” Without a second guess, I rushed forward and hoped that our leech moment wasn’t going to recur. After several hundred feet, out of curiosity I checked my feet again to find that several had latched on. Ripping them off and letting out some momentous hollers, I sprinted forward. Luckily Keith and Rohim’s friend were pretty far ahead of me, so I knew where to go. We stopped at a barbed wire fence to carefully duck underneath and were welcomed with a massive spider web spanning between trees at least my height apart. In its middle clung the largest and most frightening spider I’ve ever seen, completely black except for a bright symmetrical design on its tremendous bulbous abdomen and equipped with spikey thorns on its thorax as well as what must have been inch-long fang-like structures near its mouth. Grimacing with fear as I ducked as low as I could under the web (the shrubbery being too dense to go around quickly), I briefly checked for leeches again before picking the pace back up. Several had nestled in deep enough to draw blood upon prying them off. I suddenly surged with so much energy that I galloped forward, lightly shouting in colorful language along my way. Although I was pushed into a fight-or-flight-like mode, there was nothing single or specific to fight against or flee from, just the entire field to exit. <br /><br />The field started to thin down as we approached a several-home farming village site. As my pace slowed, I remember hearing spectacular music in my head and singing/conducting along, as if whatever sort of heightened brain activity or effects from adrenaline compounds I had been going through had additionally somehow triggered musical creativity. This was some sort of state that I had never before experienced. Finally having a cleared place to clean ourselves free of leeches (the others not having nearly the amount that I did, most likely due to more appropriate footwear), I ducked behind a straw hut and took off my sandals. I hadn’t really checked under the rim of my sandals covering the top of my foot yet. Underneath lounged several leeches swollen with blood, having had ample time to suck away. As I pried them off, from pin-prick sized wounds where their mouths were emerged small streams of blood. In crosses between laughter and hollering I hobbled over--holding my one foot although both were bleeding--to Keith who was seated enjoying chai with the locals who lived there. How does Keith always seem to find himself in a relaxed position at times when I contend with my most provoking moments? Good thing there was absolutely no pain, a striking contrast to what you’d imagine seeing so much blood. The villagers eyed me and my bloody, dirty, crazed mess of a self as Rohim’s friend took me over to a well to wash my feet off as well as to apply the juice crushed from a certain type of leaf that I think was supposed to inhibit the effects of the leeches’ anti-coagulating saliva. Even after washing my feet off, streams of blood continued to leak. My mentality had been pushed into a place that was so new to me that—along with way too much energy to sit—the best I could do while we finished our tea was pace and giggle. These moments were not my best representation of America; these villagers will have to live with it though, they likely won’t come across another one. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vB4CkxbASU/ThRNKuymu5I/AAAAAAAAAzg/zHQcKKemEGA/s1600/804_0358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4vB4CkxbASU/ThRNKuymu5I/AAAAAAAAAzg/zHQcKKemEGA/s400/804_0358.JPG" /></a></div><br />As the sun was setting, we continued past the village camp along a path, along a creek, and through an orange tree field in order to arrive back to our campsite, having made one massive circle throughout the day. My crazed mental state remained with me. I found a few fruits Rohim had shown us before, slightly larger than golf balls, and ate a few on the way. The pit was large but the flesh so sour and bitter that saliva gushed from my mouth and dribbled down my chin. We returned to the tank worker’s tarp tent, and he had made us a tasty potato curry with rice. I still had so much energy that I felt no other option than to pace around the campsite and up and down the dirt path briskly, plate in hand, as I ate. After thanking our impromptu host and another round of biris, we set off down the path back towards Roing. <br /><br />Darkness had already settled, and by the time we had returned home after stopping briefly at Rohim’s friend’s house along the way, it was time for dinner. Grimy with dirt and sweat, I knew I needed a shower. There wasn’t light in the small concrete shower room aside from the moonlight streaming in through the window. Somehow the frigid bucket water wasn’t a huge obstacle; I was still hyped up from the day. By the time I was already wet, it was pretty refreshing. Seeing huffs of my breath in the moonlight during the shower was a striking reminder of how cold it actually was. <br /><br />We recounted highlights of our experience to the family before bed; Selma was particularly excited to hear about it. We showed them samples of berries and nuts we had brought back, narrated the most challenging parts of our hike (specifically thanking Rohim for his help in getting me up the mountain), and didn’t forget about the leech attack. Comically, leeches are pronounced “jokes” in Bangla and Assamese language. During the whole day, the word ‘leech’ actually never came up, just ‘joke’. I pointed at the dozen or so red leech battle wounds on my foot, on the top of my foot, on its sides, between the toes…”joke, joke, joke, joke, joke” here, here, here, here. I turned my foot over. We all laughed. “JOKE!” An actual leech was still attached to my sole, having nestled itself up in my arch the whole hike back. <br /><br />The next morning we woke up very early; Keith and I had planned to take an early jeep out into the west of the state to see more for a day or two before heading south. Although people were drowsy, Keith and I were sure to give our deepest thanks to the family for everything they had done for us and acknowledged that, even within a few days, we had all become good friends.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6AX45lsCEJ4/ThRNkdi_gMI/AAAAAAAAAzo/JtORUxv1M8I/s1600/804_0364.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6AX45lsCEJ4/ThRNkdi_gMI/AAAAAAAAAzo/JtORUxv1M8I/s400/804_0364.JPG" /></a></div><br />At the jeep counter in Roing we were told that actually the jeep would leave in another few hours, so we decided to take a bus instead to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tezu">Tezu</a>. Dibra, in his usual grey hooded sweatshirt, came by on his bike a few minutes before we left. He had bought me a sweet paan rolled up in paper for our journey. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mOGxDQZ66A8/ThROQclBzuI/AAAAAAAAAzw/1FfQcygsbxk/s1600/804_0367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mOGxDQZ66A8/ThROQclBzuI/AAAAAAAAAzw/1FfQcygsbxk/s400/804_0367.JPG" /></a></div><br />With the warmest of goodbyes, Keith and I were soon enough on the bus and driving through the heavy mist down the single-lane road, descending slightly all the while, from Roing. The conductor of the bus, although having a really level-headed energy about him, talked at us slowly and sincerely almost non-stop for about 2 hours, even if we ignored him. Keith and I were alarmed to see that, although Tezu was in Arunachal, we had stopped at the border with Assam. At the border crossing we were asked to get off--all the other passengers waiting--to show our passes. A lot of anxiety was projected at us by the guards that we didn’t have the registration paperwork they were looking for, but from what it seemed it was that one guard’s job to have us registered, the one we first encountered in the night on the bus to Roing from Tinsukia. They eventually let us through, but Keith and I were disappointed that our trip through neverland was likely at its end. We became sorry that perhaps we wouldn’t be let back into Arunachal on our way to Tezu. <br /><br />Shortly thereafter, we were at the reentry border to Arunachal and were asked to get off and report to the border administration office. Soon enough our hopes were restored, the border guard (who Keith tactfully made friends with right away) wrote down our passport information and didn’t seem to know what else to do. In a successful attempt to keep his mind from remembering to check for any sort of required permit, I offered photocopies of my passport and visa as well as a passport photo of my face. I’ve learned to always carry more copies of those things than you think you’ll ever need. It’s like a deal-sweetener for any bureaucratic process. <br /><br />We got off the bus upon hearing that we were near Tezu and upon seeing a small tasty-looking eatery outside. It was closed, so we took a rickshaw into town. Still hungry, we found Yak Restaurant, a place recommended by the guys that had sat behind us on the bus. At Yak, Keith and I had soup, chow mein noodles, and chicken <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Momo_(food)">momos</a> (steamed dumplings). Halfway through our meal, a guy about our age named Santos, in a black leather jacket and jeans sat down at the table (one of four) next to us. We started talking and soon enough he offered to take us around on his motorcycle. We left our bags in his small shoe/clothing store and rode off through the sleepy main road of Tezu to a gas station (except there was no gas) and then to his college nearby, the same one actually that Selma from Roing goes to. The college area had lots field-like land but only one academic building (empty because of break). It was in the shape of a square ring, having about 16 classrooms, with a courtyard in the middle. We talked for some time with Santos' professor and principal--who was really excited that I like paan. Santos’ friend, Vivek, on his own motorcycle came to meet us, and from there, we drove down a small road that led off of Tezu’s main road. Soon enough we were driving through a pristine town containing lots of tall colored flags, green leafy gardens, and small trim white-paneled houses on stilts which created a storage area underneath. The place was a Buddhist Tibetan refugee area, established in the 1960s after fleeing from Chinese persecution. The area, inhabited by about 2000, is divided into 5 camps, each representing different regions of Tibet. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NuHuodRKOYs/ThROz0COAXI/AAAAAAAAAz4/5gY_5uCbfaA/s1600/804_0369.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NuHuodRKOYs/ThROz0COAXI/AAAAAAAAAz4/5gY_5uCbfaA/s400/804_0369.JPG" /></a></div><br />We rode to one end of the camps where we visited a monastery and spoke for some time with a guy about our age from camp 5. Although he was in crutches, he showed us all around the monastery and walked around with us for a bit, also showing us a nearby river, decorated with a few lines of colorful Tibetan flags that ran across it. Being struck with the beauty of the simple, colorful, and well-kept area, I walked back to the center of the camps where Keith was having a conversation with an administrator about how Tibetan villages everywhere are following the Dalai Lama’s initiative to farm completely organically. I remember being struck upon first entering the camps by seeing a sign for an organic farm. The central area of the camps was graced by a small palace, used by the Dalai Lama during his visits. Nearby was a large, colorful monastery under construction filled with robed young monks dutifully preparing Tibetan prayer scrolls to be put in hand-rotated prayer wheels that surrounded the monastery. Santos suggested that we visit the religious leader of the area; his home was right there too. I was reluctant at first at the prospect that we’d possibly be intruding, but the area seemed open enough, as several robed monks sat on a wide porch of the leader's house chatting and surveying the small road in front of them. After being led through the gate, we sat down and started talking with a Tibetan girl about our age who was studying Buddhism academically. She was a wealth of knowledge on her own, but lucky for us she spoke both fluent Tibetan and English and translated some questions we had for the maroon-robed religious leader who sat in our circle too. He was one of the few (I think 14?) who actually studied under the Dalai Lama himself. I guess we were getting our information from the right guy. Over chai and crackers, our conversation continued well after darkness had fallen. <br /><br />Getting onto the back of our now dew-soaked motorcycles, we rode back into town and to Vivek’s house. Vivek, Santos, Vivek’s father and uncle, Keith and I sat in the living room talking and laughing as Vivek’s mother and sisters had a field day making food and periodically bringing dishes out to the small table, giggling and smiling all the while. I remember Vivek’s uncle being pretty interesting; when Keith had asked about his religious beliefs he got a nasty look on his face and began to criticize how religion is causing so much of the world’s problems and conflicts. I had never heard of a new South Asian acquaintance go into an atheistic and theologically critical monologue; usually it’s a specific religion commonly accompanied by flowery accessories of respect for other religions, universal brotherhood, one God, things like that. Especially in Bangladesh. This is something I always take with a grain of salt; the picture that people would like to paint for foreigners is certainly not always congruent with behind-the-scenes belief, and at the least doesn’t reflect any country entirely, as prejudice and discrimination between religions do exist. In any case, his response was refreshing because of its unconventionality and sincerity. I commented about this to Keith; he said that he had anticipated that response initially from having observed our preceding conversation. I had been totally unaware.<br /><br />Dinner was huge; it kept coming, it was delicious, and included a lot of unique Nepali dishes I had never tasted before, many having a sour tinge of fermented vegetables. After wrapping up we laid out a thin mattress which covered the living room floor to fit Vivek, Keith, and me. Under the orange mosquito net, making it feel as if we were camping in a tent, I remember Vivek and my conversations being very thought-provoking; however, as the day had been long, Keith fell asleep almost immediately. <br /><br />The next day we woke up pretty early so we could visit a mountain before leaving Tezu by jeep around noontime. As I lazily stood up I mumbled something about taking a shower, and Vivek’s mom scurried over and ushered me over to the shower room. As I glanced outside from the small hallway I was surprised to see dozens of large metal bowls in the yard containing water. Evidently, the situation was that everyday due to low water supply, their house is only supplied with water in the morning before about 8:30 am. If I were to take a shower, I would need to do it fast before the water was turned off so they could replenish what I used in order to have a maximum supply for the whole day. Going about things rapidly, I think things worked out ok. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKHYtZ85VnM/ThRPkYxqG6I/AAAAAAAAA0A/d9KnwbcPUtQ/s1600/804_0370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZKHYtZ85VnM/ThRPkYxqG6I/AAAAAAAAA0A/d9KnwbcPUtQ/s400/804_0370.JPG" /></a></div><br />After breakfast, Santos came by and we boarded our motorcycles and head out of town through a small, nicely paved road that ascended gradually through bright yellow mustard flower fields, tall tree forests, and vast dry riverbeds. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b8niXmHhYK8/ThR84tEltxI/AAAAAAAAA3o/9jVWVhyGQGg/s1600/Tezu%2B%25287%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b8niXmHhYK8/ThR84tEltxI/AAAAAAAAA3o/9jVWVhyGQGg/s400/Tezu%2B%25287%2529.png" /></a></div><br />Soon enough the road started winding about as it got more steep and mountainous. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B9dLiRs-wrs/ThR-HahacdI/AAAAAAAAA34/WJ4OV-mPoXI/s1600/Tezu%2B%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-B9dLiRs-wrs/ThR-HahacdI/AAAAAAAAA34/WJ4OV-mPoXI/s400/Tezu%2B%25282%2529.png" /></a></div><br />After about 40 minutes, we arrived at a large bridge over a deep ravine. A small river churned through grey rocks of all sizes, flowing through the valley between two green mountains, coming from way up the mountain range. We took a few minutes to scale down the ravine and dip our feet in a bit. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gmbGwd_eXpA/ThRQKHKo6WI/AAAAAAAAA0I/4LOFut5UHlY/s1600/804_0373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style=""><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gmbGwd_eXpA/ThRQKHKo6WI/AAAAAAAAA0I/4LOFut5UHlY/s400/804_0373.JPG" /></a></div><br />I was pretty appalled to see some areas in the river area littered with silver paper plates and mounds of unfinished food and rice. Evidently the area is a popular spot for picnic getaways, and evidently it doesn’t matter if we leave behind all our garbage. A few years more of that and it might not be so popular a place anymore. The sort of plague picnic activity at play here is something I see among Bangladeshis too. We all know Dhaka is dirty and crowded, so let’s go somewhere outside the city where the scenery is better. Rolling in with huge buses if the group size is large enough, a previously untouched area can easily become the new holding place for garbage including non-decomposable water bottles and chip bags. It’s kindof like there’s a search for natural beauty; after it’s found, it’s trampled on, and the search continues. Plague. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNglVLd-vII/ThRQ-UmbLoI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/-jNFvRt39gw/s1600/804_0374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="225" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DNglVLd-vII/ThRQ-UmbLoI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/-jNFvRt39gw/s400/804_0374.JPG" /></a></div><br />After soaking in the scenery as much as possible, down the windy road again we went, a break thrown into our descent to stop for some paan. We were also amused by a pig lounging in the shade of a large tree trunk. All of my favorite goodies were in that paan. Later that day in Tezu town I would go on a small search for various paan accessories not available in Bangladesh: menthol cooling gels, sweet and rosy syrups, powders, oils, dried fruits, and various sticky pulpy or dry crunchy mixtures. As Santos and I were riding back we exchanged our small key clip carabiners. It was a fascinating exchange; our net carabiner functionality remained exactly the same, but both of us walked away acquiring something that struck our interests because in each of our relative perspectives, ‘I now have something really cool because it’s from a far away foreign land.’<br /><br />Back at Vivek’s house there wasn’t too much time to say our thanks and goodbyes; by noon we were in the main intersection of Tezu boarding a jeep that would take us back to Tinsukia. Santos and his sister actually joined us because they were planning on going anyway for some business. Past Yak Restaurant, past Santos’ shop, and into the sparse landscape we went, mostly following the pebbly, dusty, dry riverbeds which made it feel like we were on a unique type of safari. Some rivers we crossed were manageable by the temporary rickety bamboo bridges, but one was wide enough that we needed to board a small ferry to cross it. While we waited in line, we saw several other jeeps and even some transport trucks being boated over. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PgdWRqevqec/ThRRd6_hWSI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/wqRvEvhNFhg/s1600/804_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PgdWRqevqec/ThRRd6_hWSI/AAAAAAAAA0Y/wqRvEvhNFhg/s400/804_0376.JPG" /></a></div><br />On the other side of the river, we paused for half an hour for lunch. Amidst the grey, dry, dusty landscape that extended about as far as the eye could see (excluding the flowing blue river through it all) sat several bamboo and leaf-thatched hut-like eateries lined up in a row for hungry travelers just like us.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMLWo7Pgvi0/ThSHWPoB1nI/AAAAAAAAA4U/tK9csQLjaOI/s1600/Tezu%2B%25284%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iMLWo7Pgvi0/ThSHWPoB1nI/AAAAAAAAA4U/tK9csQLjaOI/s400/Tezu%2B%25284%2529.png" /></a></div><br />Despite the remoteness of the location, the food we had was delicious, especially because it was accompanied by the most tasteful array of accessories, arranged circularly in mini tin plates: fresh chili, chopped pungent onion, salt, sliced lime, and a spicy green salsa/chutney. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KwToeQc1ONE/ThSJA_LBOLI/AAAAAAAAA4g/tTK3ywX3Wxw/s1600/Tezu%2B%25285%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KwToeQc1ONE/ThSJA_LBOLI/AAAAAAAAA4g/tTK3ywX3Wxw/s400/Tezu%2B%25285%2529.png" /></a></div><br />I looked up from my rice, dal, vegetable curry, fish, and accessories to view grey dusty flatlands under the beating sun (contrasted sharply by the piercing blue river behind us), and then turned to look inside the shaded bamboo eatery with a few other jeep-goers enjoying lunch on long thin wooden tables and chairs. In a moment that was fleeting and relatively unimportant on our routine journey back to Tinsukia, I had a glimpse of paradise.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oFgpVo3ySrg/ThSGtN6LkeI/AAAAAAAAA4M/l9YInSP_m0o/s1600/Tezu%2B%25283%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oFgpVo3ySrg/ThSGtN6LkeI/AAAAAAAAA4M/l9YInSP_m0o/s400/Tezu%2B%25283%2529.png" /></a></div><br />After a refreshingly easy border crossing into Assam (after which the roads and landscape became more predictable), we arrived back in Tinsukia as the sun set. With a few hours before our train was due to leave to Dimapur (in Nagaland), Santos went off to get some parts for his motorcycle, his sister went to the market, Keith went back to a temple, and I went on another excursion for luscious, perfumey, and sweet paan accessories which led me through some colorful, crowded back streets of the city, a pack of curious onlookers never far behind. <br /><br />I got back to the train station a few hours early and sat down against a wall in the back of the main entrance area. A man sitting next to me, bundled up a worn sweater, happily accepted some of the paan menthol/spicy fruit powder had just bought; it makes a great breath freshener. We talked some, and after tossing on several layers of clothes and getting out my bedsheet, I fell asleep using my backpack for a pillow. <br /><br />I foggily drifted out of sleep maybe less than an hour later at the sound of Keith and Santos’ voices; they were sitting next to me and chatting with, to my surprise, the Tibetan camp guy on crutches that we had met outside of the first monastery we visited there. As the Tezu area was a day’s travel away and we had no knowledge that we’d each be at the Tinsukia station at the same time, the meeting was quite the coincidence. Soon enough we got the TTE process started again, finding the office and official to see if there was a possibility to get some flat births for our overnight trip. Eventually the train came; I remember the TTE process being particularly confusing because we couldn’t determine where to go. I was also disoriented from fatigue and deeply, deeply cold, as if I could be wearing any number of layers and it still wouldn’t make a difference. <br /><br />Eventually boarding and finding places to lie down, I put on every single piece of clothing I had brought and curled up in a birth. The next morning I found myself laughing at how much I had worn as I dressed down a bit with the morning sunlight bringing with it a hint of warmth; I counted at least 10 layers of shirts (including a hooded sweatshirt), 4 layers of pants, and 2 layers of socks. The four of us got off the train and walked right into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dimapur">Dimapur</a> city. Keith and I thought there would have been more of a process for us to enter; this state also required a permit for foreigners wanting to travel through. In any case, we retained the same slightly guarded feeling in the back of our minds that we did in Arunachal, an exciting but also anxious feeling that on some level, we weren’t supposed to be there. Santos took us to the bus stand and bid us farewell; he was off with his sister to pick up things for their business before returning to Tezu. The bus ticket to Imphal (the capital of Manipur, the small state below Nagaland) of rs. 700 (maybe $17 USD) was shockingly expensive. By the end of the day, though, we’d realize that the price was well worth it. <br /><br />With just about no wait time, we were on the bus and pulling out of Dimapur. The mountains that grew out of the terrain we were traversing were tremendous and never-ending. It was as if the giant lumpy mountain peaks extended throughout the whole state. The landscape was much different than the lush jungles we encountered in Roing and the green forests we found in Tezu; my memory brings up a picture that reminds me of late fall. The bright colors are gone and most everything is brown in hue. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kohima">Kohima</a>, Nagaland’s capital, sat upon a landscape that was no different. Reminiscent of a Darjeeling-like construction, the whole city (and it was a vast city) looked like it was dropped right on top of these mountain faces from the sky. Although its color reflected the blandness of the surrounding environment, its construction and seemingly impossible existence kept my eyes intently gazing out the window the whole time. <br /><br />As we neared <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manipur">Manipur</a>, we got stopped more and more frequently by police checkpoints. I’m not entirely sure what they were looking for, but every time they came onto the bus I had a routine of tucking my head underneath my hood and pretending to be asleep. It had worked somehow in Arunachal, and if they would actually check for passes, perhaps we could scrape our way by here too. Keith and I weren’t interested in being forced to turn back or otherwise; exiting Nagaland through Assam before going back to Bangladesh would mean a few extra days on buses. <br /><br />We stopped for lunch at Mao, the first town of Manipur. Lonely Planet’s section on Manipur is comically brief, barely consisting of a paragraph or two, and, despite Manipur being an entire state, it took up only about a quarter of a page. The guidebook mentioned nothing positive about the place and spoke of the political tensions in the area. Such political issues are most likely caused by various insurgency groups demanding independence from India, as well as response to their uprisings. The bus unloaded for lunch. I rather immediately became nervous. About a quarter of the people walking around the small shop-lined road were blue camouflage-patterned uniformed police (or army?) personnel all armed with rifles. There didn’t seem to be any commotion in the area, as if everyone were going about their business as usual and as if it were nothing out of the ordinary to appear occupied by a heavy-handed military force. Every once in a while Keith and I—while walking around searching for which restaurant looked tastiest—would hear a gunshot echo through the air. Once I thought I heard screaming after one. No one else looked like they even lifted an eyebrow. <br /><br />Picking a place to eat, I sat down amongst all the empty tables and started talking to the only person nearby, a guy about my age who probably was a helping hand for the eatery. Soon a reserved but seemingly warm-hearted woman brought out rice, boiled spinach, a delicious dal, and chicken. The guy’s responses to my questions were rather brief, he didn’t sport the engaging personality I had been accustomed to, yet in no way did he seem mean or angry. From what I could understand from his answers to my questions, the alarming gunshots that we’d periodically hear were fired as part of a celebration going on that day. I'm supposing that scream I heard was a celebratory one. Before I left the restaurant, I went back into the kitchen to thank the cook, the same woman that brought the food out. The edge of the restaurant that was adjacent to the road touched the ground, but the rest of the small structure was on stilts, and the back area away from the road looked out over hilly areas that reminded me a great deal of the dry shrubby California hilly landscape between LA and San Diego. As Keith and I walked back to the bus, I was surprised to see shops selling various colorful trinkets and food preserves with a loopy language written on the packaging that I didn’t recognize. They were products imported from Myanmar, lying just to the east of Manipur.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--hzyzzizZgo/ThRSLuK0ceI/AAAAAAAAA0g/BV0dJCAYyyY/s1600/804_0379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--hzyzzizZgo/ThRSLuK0ceI/AAAAAAAAA0g/BV0dJCAYyyY/s400/804_0379.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H6BscEQDfkI/ThRT3nbkkJI/AAAAAAAAA0s/YqbrrCIQxR4/s1600/804_0381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H6BscEQDfkI/ThRT3nbkkJI/AAAAAAAAA0s/YqbrrCIQxR4/s400/804_0381.JPG" /></a></div><br />The bus continued, and every time we’d stop at some checkpoint, I’d sink down into the chair, cover up with my hood, and lean my head to one side as if I were sleeping. Both Nagaland and Manipur, like Arunachal, require permits for foreigners, and perhaps the Manipur army/police presence knew about that too. In any case, we made it to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imphal">Imphal</a>, Manipur’s capital, a few hours before sunset. <br /><br />We’d all been dropped off at a nice hotel which everyone insisted we stay at. Wanting to explore a bit more before resigning to a hotel, Keith and I started walking in a direction that looked like it lead to more buildings. We were joined by a few guys our age from the initial crowd that had assembled as we had deliberated about what to do after stepping off the bus. Their nice personalities and fluent English made conversation easy. It wasn’t long before one had invited Keith and me to stay at their home, which had a room for guests to the adjacent Baptist church. The father of our host, Koko, was its pastor. We explored around a bit and visited a central part of the city where large concrete buildings sporting wide open spaces had been recently constructed to house the massive market there with its thousands of sellers. In that area, we bought jeep tickets to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silchar">Silchar</a> in the southern part of Assam where we could catch a train westward toward Bangladesh. The jeep left early the next morning, so it looked as if our tour of Imphal was finished then, additionally because our friends were insistently guiding us back home before it got too late, claiming that the city got too dangerous after dark. <br /><br />Back at the house we all chatted in the room that Keith and I stayed in, equipped with three beds and lots of extra heavy blankets. After a frigid but refreshing shower, the family served a large dinner of rice, spinach, mixed vegetables, dal, pork, and Indian-style Cheetos. Having worked up quite an appetite I remember having several helpings. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xxr0rDFQL7Y/ThRV09exD0I/AAAAAAAAA04/ctyDMJArZIQ/s1600/804_0382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xxr0rDFQL7Y/ThRV09exD0I/AAAAAAAAA04/ctyDMJArZIQ/s400/804_0382.JPG" /></a></div><br />After dinner I met the rest of the family who had been in another room while the dining room table had been filled with me, Keith, Koko, and 2 of his friends. The kids were going to bed soon so that they could be up early the next day for their studies, which it seemed occupied a foundational centerpiece in the way they spent their time. Koko was interested in studying medicine, and as such, has been studying incredibly intensely for I think over a year. One of his review books I fingered through, having a spine width of about 4 inches, was well over 1,000 dense textbook pages. I could vaguely remember some of the content from my Muhlenberg days, but he was in tune with just about every single page. Evidently his familiarity with just about all of science needed to be no less than complete; the competition for medical school admission was next to insurmountable; the entire state was competing for a single slot.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZY5n1KpN6c/ThRWMHcyLFI/AAAAAAAAA1A/hkjcXwrg1M0/s1600/804_0386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZY5n1KpN6c/ThRWMHcyLFI/AAAAAAAAA1A/hkjcXwrg1M0/s400/804_0386.JPG" /></a></div><br />That evening I was so exhausted that I fell fast asleep amongst the chatter and music in our room; the church had an electronic keyboard that they brought upstairs which Keith was glad to finally have access to. Nice keyboards are hard to come by in Dhaka, and even if fancy hotels have a piano, they’re pretty strict about who gets to use it. The next morning we were up pretty early to catch the jeep from Imphal. Keith and I fortunately got the two front seats, so the ride was relatively comfortable, and we had easy access to the fantastic scenery that our whole 12 hour trip sported. Although the distance wasn’t huge as the crow flies, the windy roads through the mountains can make any distance interminable. No matter, the views were nothing less than mesmerizing. Keith and I also had some great conversations, I remember going into some detail about his favorite books, having influenced him a great deal. We also entertained ourselves by keeping a count of how many times we had to stop at a guard station to pay. Some of the stations might have been police, some perhaps informal groups of people that controlled a section of the road. In most cases, the pay was only about 10-30 rupees, and I think it was for keeping the roads guarded and safe. Maybe that’s euphemistic for ‘bribe.’ Whatever the story was, we made no less than a dozen stops, perhaps even closer to two. <br /><br />At one point in time during our journey, massive clouds of dust could be faintly seen, rising up higher and higher from the direction where we looked to be headed. Eventually we could see that it was being kicked up from the winding dusty road up ahead. Weaving around the mountain faces, dust was emerging from the road for miles and miles ahead of us. The jeep’s 8 passengers let out a sigh as we finally realized that the culprit was a never-ending line of large trucks, probably hauling something for some construction project. The trucks, referred to as lorees, never cease to amaze me. They’re all over India and are used to carry everything. Despite their size, they can negotiate terrain that buses wouldn’t stand a chance against. They’re like cockroaches, colorful cockroaches that is—they’re painted loudly and are usually garnished with dazzling accessories that either flash at you or brilliantly stream off the sides. The compact driver cabin supports several people, probably on the road for days at a time. We certainly got a good look at them; pulling over to the side of the road (a several hundred foot precipice only a few feet away), the line of what must have been no less than a hundred successive lorees creaked and grumbled past us, kicking up dust all the while. Eventually there was enough space in between them for us to sneak forward bit by bit on the single lane road. The dust was thick and decreased visibility as much as heavy fog. The headlights of a loree ahead of us, piercing through the dust, was our warning that one was heading in our path, which was our cue to pull over to the side. After passing several dozen more lorees, they had thinned out enough to keep the dust settled, and we were on our way as before. <br /><br />We finally pulled into Silchar after the sun had already set. A drunk teenager saw us get out and hollered in our direction, asking where we were from in a welcoming tone, but a belligerent one. Without responding, and after a hearty tip to our jeep driver, Keith and I made our way in the direction of the train station. Several teenagers with loud voices and big smiles talked to us briefly on the tracks, and offered train departure information that conflicted with the train station officer afterward, a confusing and rather unfriendly man himself. He also claimed that there was no place for us to stay at the station, even though we had been told before that there was a guest house there. Not entirely sure what to think, we decided we’d wait until morning, as there didn’t appear to be any more trains leaving that night. We walked outside of the station and asked a teenage girl where we might find food; she had a cell phone against her ear, but wasn’t speaking. Her expression appeared dissatisfied, and she gazed past us for a good 10 seconds until we continued walking, realizing she (weirdly so) was going to be of absolutely no help. Keith mentioned to me how strange the vibe was that this place seemed to soak in; indeed, I too felt a mixture of confusion and lack of comfort. At that moment an aged man staggered past us, groaning, and visibly drunk enough to barely stand upright. Keith and I giggled to ourselves; this was likely the strangest place that either of us had ever visited. One of those loud teenagers on the train tracks offered to show us a place to eat. They drove us on motorcycles to a brightly-lit but oddly-colored Chinese fast food place. They excitedly waited outside for us, even though we offered them to join. The Asian-looking woman at the ordering counter looked to be completely in her own world and apathetic about anyone else around her. She didn’t get our simple order right. The stir fry man looked agitated that I was watching him cook. The food was not good. I couldn’t tell whether to be upset or to simply laugh out loud. The teenagers drove us back to the train station. The waiting room smelled funny and was abnormally bright, but looked like it could accommodate us. Keith rolled out his sleeping bag and I sorted through the storage area behind a small shop outside for some extra cardboard sheets. I didn’t care if I looked silly or crazy; I had no reputation to keep to this strange and confusing environment. We chained our bags to the metal chair in the corner. The cardboard was just long enough for me to stretch out on my back; I covered up with my bed sheet, blew up my pillow, and lastly, tied a thin towel around my head to keep the light out of my eyes. Despite the day of sitting, the unconventional sleeping conditions, and the Chinese fast food that sat strangely in my stomach, I fell asleep easily. At one point in time during the middle of the night, I stirred half awake and peeked under my blindfold to observe the commotion I could hear in the waiting room. Although it had initially been almost empty, at that time it was completely packed and buzzing with chatty travelers. I shielded my eyes again from the piercing lights and, amazingly, fell right back to sleep.<br /><br />The following morning I remember leisurely waking up and reading a bit. The bathroom in the waiting room had a shower too, so I was able to keep with my routine of showering every other day. I remember reading a little bit before Keith woke up. By the late morning, it felt as if that silly grimy corner in the waiting room was a makeshift home. Keith and I boarded the train for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agartala">Agartala</a> in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tripura">Tripura</a> (our fifth northeast state to visit during our trip) that afternoon, and the ride took the rest of the day. Arriving there well after dark, we knew it’d be best to stay overnight there before trying to get across the border into Bangladesh. Preparing to set up camp again in the waiting room there (more crowded than at Silchar, people were legitimately camping out at this place, with mosquito nets and all), the guard offered the empty train as an alternative for us. I couldn’t have been happier. The berths on those trains are not only comfortable, but also not grimy like the floor. I remember being cold and bundling up again with about 10 layers of shirts and several pants, but slept pretty well aside from the mosquitos that I avoided by covering my face with that thin towel. The guard woke us up a bit before 5 am; it was time for the train to start making its daily trips. Keith and I exited the station walking into a heavy mist that settled coolly along the road into town. The sun started to rise and everything adopted a faint blue tint. Our walking journey continued a good while, well after the sun was completely up, and eventually we broke down and decided to get a rickshaw. The city of Agartala borders Bangladesh somewhere, although we weren’t exactly sure how far away we were. I giggled at what I told the rickshaw cyclist: “Take us to Bangladesh.” <br /><br />Soon we were riding through Agartala town, still cool from the morning. In time the town thinned out and we were riding along a sparse residential road. Keith spotted some parked lorees and said he felt the border was close. I shot a look at him as if to ask “And how the heck do you know?” Within the next five seconds, the horizontal bar at the check post emerged into view from the fog. Evidently Keith knows his border crossings. The rest of that morning we spent eating fried egg and roti bread for breakfast at a road-side bamboo hut stall and then going through immigration with the stamps and forms, the first ones to do so that morning. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ve-OfoC2XP8/ThRWqXO1nGI/AAAAAAAAA1I/UP-XWNKqz3A/s1600/804_0390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ve-OfoC2XP8/ThRWqXO1nGI/AAAAAAAAA1I/UP-XWNKqz3A/s400/804_0390.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wj9GYPYsNQc/ThRW5i0YPpI/AAAAAAAAA1Q/ZMorR6KtiH4/s1600/804_0391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="225" width="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wj9GYPYsNQc/ThRW5i0YPpI/AAAAAAAAA1Q/ZMorR6KtiH4/s400/804_0391.JPG" /></a></div><br />The Bangladesh side of the border was more populated; a massive line of trucks sat patiently on the road waiting to get customs clearance. Keith and I hopped on a rickshaw to take us to the border town, a ride that took us along a tree-lined path through rice paddies on both sides that would fade into the distance, succumbing to fog as if we were riding through a big cloud. As soon as we pulled into the town, you could feel the difference. We were only maybe a quarter mile from India, but there was no question in my mind that we had now returned to Bangladesh. Part of it was the familiar mobile phone advertisements, part of it was the different street food situation, part of it was the incessant staring, and part of it was a simple but difficult to describe feeling, a sense that now, yes, we were back. A sigh expelled itself slowly from my lungs as if to think “Oh boy, here we go again.” At the same time though, an unexplainable smile spread across my face.<br /><br />At the train station it took us quite a while just to figure out when the train going to Dhaka would arrive. The organization of transportation infrastructure is completely pitiful in Bangladesh compared to India. No signboards, conflicting information from people, simple complete lack of awareness about what to do, not a trace of a computerized system in place to help out…how could the Agartala station just a few miles away in India be so new, so easy to use and navigate, and then in Bangladesh, this mess. We also had no way to pay for tickets since we had converted all our taka into rupees two weeks ago. There was no money exchange booth in the whole town, so Keith travelled to an ATM while I waited with our stuff at the station. Then the swarm of people collected. I relocated myself several times to try to avoid being the center of a crowd, but it would always reform itself, and always inevitably with me in the middle. Then the vendors would start to complain that customers were being blocked from their shop. Eventually I found myself outside the station; the only place where the crowd could form and not immediately get in people’s way. Although, now that I think about it, I think the police did have to come and nudge people out of the road coming up to the station’s entrance so…anyone could get in. Yep, back in Bangladesh alright. Where was Keith? A few started talking with me in a loud way that I just wanted to get away from. I think they were commenting on my torn shirt too. I didn’t really care if they made fun of it; just because I’m a foreigner doesn’t mean that I have to be wearing nice clothes. And after the past two weeks, my clothes were anything but nice. <br /><br />So eventually Keith came and eventually we got on the train, my first train ride in Bangladesh actually. Keith advised that we stay close to the doors of the car we were in; people were likely to fill it up like a can of pressed sardines, and breathing space would likely become a premium. Avoiding the pushing and shoving, I drifted forward into the car itself; Keith remained somewhere amongst the mess of people. A surge of anger flooded me as I walked into the car. It was so typical Bangladesh. The seats were cushioned and made of this tacky red velvet material. As if to make it seem ‘so much nicer’ than it actually was. They slightly reclined and had armrests. Although that took up completely unnecessary space, it wasn’t anything compared to what kept me fuming for about half of the 2 hour ride. The seats were grouped into four, two facing another two, with a small table between them. The number of seats could have been doubled if they all simply faced the front. A handful of people in the car got to sit smugly on those clunky chairs, and dozens and dozens smushed themselves in a hot mess of bodies throughout the aisle and in the space by the doors. Who the hell planned something like that, and why didn’t they take a hint from the Indian cars that can fit so many more people because they don’t try to force in a garish design that might catch people’s eye but simply defeats the purpose of transporting PEOPLE rather than those who specifically have booked their tickets far enough in advance through whatever screwed up and inefficient sorry excuse for a ticketing system that may or may not be functioning at a given time. Or those that actually have the money to get the ticket in the first place. So exclusive, and so messed up. It started to get hot. A kid started crying. And would not stop. There was absolutely no place for me to go, the doors were blocked. More people forced their way on. I gripped the overhead baggage rack with my hands and stared slightly upward. At that moment, a thought flashed across my mind. And immediately, a smile emerged. None of this existed. Whether it’s the idea that everything is lived subjectively (and we don’t have actual access to an objective world), or the idea of quantum mechanics that everything we observe is a boggling fluctuation of energy based on probabilities, or a model of social structures that guide our perceptions and behavior that solely exists in the minds of its propagators, or the philosophical Hindu-Buddhist doctrine of illusory reality, none of this existed. If convincing myself that nothing around me exists is what it takes to lift the spirits out of the pit of doom into which I was plummeting inside that car, so be it. It was a notable event , to be sure. I had left college much less than a year ago adopting a rather solidified materialist mindset, where everything was simply matter in motion, obeying predictable universal laws. Whatever I had been subjected to since having arrived in South Asia half a year ago, my mind had been made up in some way through some means that now my theories of reality had spun 180 degrees in the opposite direction. <br /><br />I took a look around. I was not thrilled with the situation, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore because the world seemed a whole lot more free and full of possibilities. A few rows down, an open window beckoned. At the next stop, I shoved one leg through, squeezed my head under, and hobbled out of the train and onto the platform. Ok, now to get back on. Getting a foothold on the engine car, I climbed on the roof of the car I had just climbed out of. Several people already up there welcomed me with excited laughs and questions. One had a heap of roped-together newspapers he was delivering somewhere, another few boys were hitching a ride to Dhaka to find work—somehow. One always sees people sitting on the roofs of trains; it didn’t seem like I’d have to deal with the threat of low-lying bridges or overpasses if everyone was up there anyway. Gripping onto a hand-hold for support, I sat smack behind the engine car as the whole train rocketed forward. Although the wind blew fast into my face, it was still no problem to keep my eyes at half-mast to enjoy the greenery, trees, and rice paddies extending forever on both sides of the train. The difference of enjoyment between being crammed into a hot smelly car with crying babies and being on the wide-open roof with scenery and fresh air was completely laughable. <br /><br />At the station in Dhaka I found it difficult to part with the friendly boys on the roof top. Even during our short ride, we had spoken to each other quite a bit; I knew how difficult it would be for them here, with nowhere to stay and no plan for food or income. Unfortunately, this is the same scenario for countless others too. It felt fresh to be back in Dhaka again, despite the pollution and noise. The familiarity was everywhere: the people, the language, the buses, the signboards, the road routes, the smells. Without the mental tension of a daily routine to uphold and plans to make, the city was simply familiarity, simply a sense of welcome. However, as is the case with any return-from-traveling, the annoyances and frustrations would inevitably arise a few days after, especially after settling into the schedule of trying to teach English daily. I bussed back to my old Baridhara apartment, familiar but foreign, as I knew that I would be living there no more. I greeted the 2 new Fulbrighters there, ready to begin their 3 month language training that I had just finished, chatted a bit, ate all the food in their fridge, gathered up my stuff that I had left in Christy’s room, and hired a CNG autorickshaw to head westward to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammadpur_Thana">Mohammadpur</a>, my new home. On the way back to the house I was sure to have the driver stop by a shop so I could pick up a bed palate to sleep on; that was the only necessary thing to have that evening. <br /><br />Back at the new apartment, Keith was already waiting with our new housemates, Nicholas and Shima, a newly-married Bangladeshi couple. I had met Nicholas coincidentally at a roadside eatery while initially searching for an apartment several weeks earlier. Landlords rarely rent out to single men (those trouble-makers!), so I knew it would be beneficial for us to sign in together as a family (a much more socially-accepted lifestyle). Landlords, guards, and other people we need to negotiate with also don’t speak English well; having Nicholas around as a native speaker sure did expedite things. The cost would be much less for all of us if we split it, and Keith and I could practice Bangla with them as could they practice English with us. Shima could prepare food as if it were a homestay situation, and Keith and I could pay for groceries. They were nice, all parties win, let’s live together. <br /><br />That evening I unpacked a large Christmas package that Mom had sent. It included a pillow, blanket, and freshly-laundered bed linens. There couldn’t have been anything more perfect for me to receive. I spent a few minutes simply inhaling the freshness of the sheets, the fragrance taking my mind right back to home. I’d unpack my dirty stuff later; I had a day or two to settle in before school started. Laying down, I thought about the chapters that were closing, the life in Baridhara, the daily interaction I used to have with the other Fulbrighters, the Bangla class, the adventurous holiday expedition through northeast India. Where they left off, new chapters seamlessly began, a family-style life, a new location, and my first English teaching experience.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JXfqbNM7SpQ/ThSW38LB0YI/AAAAAAAAA4s/_UVy6JwG5tQ/s1600/IMG_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="300" width="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JXfqbNM7SpQ/ThSW38LB0YI/AAAAAAAAA4s/_UVy6JwG5tQ/s400/IMG_0005.jpg" /></a></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-40474562117823900692010-12-06T19:40:00.003+05:302011-02-11T00:24:05.920+05:30Halloween BakingSo after our cat Durga got better, things plummeted. Maybe it was eating the kitty litter, maybe it was lack of nutrition, maybe a loss of motivation to live. She quickly fell into a state of such profound weakness that standing was an impossibility and keeping her head upright at all was a challenge. The vet seemed to think this was caused by not having access to a mother’s milk. Even with steady attention and sugar water/milk as often as she had the strength to eat, within a day and a half she was thinner and weaker than I had ever seen. <br /><br />The day after her weakness set in, I had been accepted into Commissary (a grocery store for US embassy members) membership. Eager to see what all was there, I made a run and picked up some foods that people had been craving. That evening, over wine, cheese, beef jerky, Bluebell ice cream, and saltines, Laule’a, Keith, and I happily chatted away in our living room. By our reminiscing about food from home, the heaviness of Durga’s condition swiftly lifted. After an hour or so, Laule’a had stepped over to Durga’s box to say goodnight. She calmly told Keith and I (sitting on the couch) that she didn’t think she was breathing anymore. Keith went over and lifted her up; her head hung backward and her mouth stiffly gaped open slightly. We called the other Fulbrighters to let them know of Durga’s death. Even within two weeks, we all had enjoyed Durga’s company, and one of us even made a movie of her with footage from a video-camera. We all felt sorry for Keith the most; he had become the closest to the tiny alleycat. Even for such a short-lived amount of time, the comfortable life that we were able to provide her for 2 weeks must have included some of her most enjoyable moments. We could at least feel good about that. The contrast between the grungy crowded old-city alley street we found her in and her wide-open, air-conditioned, fed-everyday lifestyle here in the nicest part of the city is actually pretty comical. Such a tiny cat, and such a brief amount of time. Yet her presence here has strengthened the Fulbrighter’s relationships, given Keith the powerful experience of nurturing a creature in need and feeling the purrs of thankfulness in return, and lastly forced us all to ask ourselves deep and important questions such as What is life? How do we assess quality of life? Who do we chose to help, and who do we ignore in our lives? Does it make a difference to invest so much time in such a small animal, when many of us don’t even give money to beggars on the street? What does life mean in the dirt of a city street versus in the attention of a caregiver in a comfortable environment? What difference does it make, for us to save a cat like that? What does it mean for us? And what does it mean for Durga herself? A few days later, I was surprised to hear our door open and a kitten’s ‘meow’ drift into my room. The absence of a cat in our Fulbright group was short-lived. Christy had found a cat on the street next to a tea shop. <br /><br />Throughout Durga’s last day the scratching feeling in my left eye grew. I had first noticed it that afternoon at the end of class. Although it felt as if there were a foreign object in there, I tried whatever I could do to get it out but to no avail. Mucus started leaking from the eye’s tear duct and accumulating. Before bed, Keith diagnosed me with pink eye and happily recounted his experience with pink eye while driving his auto-rickshaw to Calcutta. “It spread to both eyes, I could barely see out of them! Basically I just kept my eyes pried open and bit the bullet though, I mean I had to get to Dhaka somehow, there was no time to sit and rest. It must have looked so strange, seeing this foreigner driving around in an auto, with puffy, red, mucus-leaking eyes. Here, I got these gentamicin eye drops from a pharmacy. It cleared it all right up.” Even after having put in drops before bed, I woke up the next morning with my eye completely swelled shut. Having to pry it open not just because of swelling but also because of dried mucus gluing my eyelashes together, I could barely get in some more drops. The eye underneath looked alien and appalling. Deep redness stained everything except for the harshly-contrasting blue iris, left fortunately intact. Brown, wrinkled tissue surrounded the iris, as if the eye were decaying. Alarmed, I consulted John (war veteran and military nurse, we all go to John for health-related questions) to see what his recommendations would be. Skipping out on class, I headed down the street to the hospital, box of tissues in hand in case seepage got out of control. At the hospital I scheduled an appointment during the eye-doctor’s office hours. My classmates were afraid of my contagiousness and recommended I stay out of class the rest of the day. No problem, I always can use more sleep. At lunch I was so conscious of making sure I didn’t put anyone else at risk that I had Laule’a serve me. A fascinating feeling of being handicapped, coupled with a lack of confidence, fell over me (especially because I didn’t want to horrify people by making eye-contact). That afternoon the doctor checked for foreign objects (none) and loaded me up on a regiment of antibiotic eye drops, an anti-inflammatory medicine, antibiotic hand wash, and eye ointment. Yes ointment. Before bed I needed to spread it over the eyeball. I guess you got to do what you got to do. After the first day of treatment I could already tell that things were getting much better, although the next day I woke up with the infection in both eyes. Within 5 days or do I was back to normal, but fortunately not too soon; I kept my red devil eyes for our Halloween party. <br /><br />I was psyched to celebrate Halloween, and we had been planning on the party for weeks. Keith was in charge of inviting everyone he could think of, as well as procuring alcohol. I was much more interested in the food and decoration. As you could guess, Halloween-specific decorations are hard to find here in Dhaka. Not hard to find, nonexistent. Fortunately my Commissary membership came through a few days before the party, and I was able to pick up a truckload of food supplies. I don’t know how the store clerk and I got all that food to fit in two boxes, but if we hadn’t been able to, I have no idea how I would have gotten it all back. Not only did I get lots of candy, but also foods for the other Fulbrighters and baking supplies. My German friend, Jan, lives two doors down and has an oven. It was an outlandish prospect, but I was hoping on baking pumpkin pie and apple dumplings. Many of the ingredients could be found in the market, but a few items were exclusively available at the Commissary, and a few of the spices I needed were available at neither. This is one reason why I was so joyful when my Mom’s package arrived. We had schemed up some things that would be good for a Halloween party, my Mom and I, and she sent a package filled with decorations and spices. As the days wore on closer and closer to the party, I was pretty sure that I’d have to cope with the disappointment of receiving the festive package after the show was over. When I saw Keith walk into our apartment TWO days before the party with a package addressed to me (having picked it up at the American Center – public affairs section of the embassy), well, overjoyed is an understatement. As I went through decoration after decoration, my room smelling of spices, I was overtaken with past Halloween memories and became filled with energy to make our apartment as spooky as possible. I don’t know, Halloween is a big deal to me. It’s about the feelings of sinking into another school year, of the seasons changing, of excitement for colored leaves and frosts, of fall foods like pumpkin and apple, of the thrill of being frightened, of allowing yourself the space to experience a range of emotions that are completely absent in the celebratory holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. And now—armed with decorations and the actual possibility of baking foods that I so fondly crave—I felt as if my distance to such Halloween-associated excitement and memories had been lifted. Granted, much of my alone thoughts have been qualified by nostalgia for a time that has passed in my life, be it high school, college, or home life with all the friends present. Now, it wasn’t only about remembering past times fondly, but living them as well. Buzzing, I haunted our apartment with decorations, shuffled furniture around with Keith, and assembled a playlist of music we could play. <br /><br />I spent most of Friday, the day of the party, at Jan’s baking. Combining the ingredients I remembered to get at the Commissary, those that I had scraped together from the market and from our apartment kitchen, and lastly a few items filling in the gaps that Jan had, we went to town rolling out dough, mixing ingredients, wrapping apples, washing dishes, and baking for hours on end. The pumpkin ‘pie’ we made was in the shape of a large square tray, made to be cut into bars. We had to bake the crust before adding the pumpkin. We burned the crust. I feared that a flame oven without temperature settings would render the operation impossible, let alone getting the ingredient balance correct without measuring cups and measuring spoons. No worries, we started over and ate the burned crust anyway, which tasted like toasted cookies. With watchful eyes, we basically simply took it out whenever we ‘thought’ it was done. Despite how sure I was that things would be underdone or burnt, the pumpkin and nearly 40 apple dumplings turned out simply beautifully. As the first people came for the party, I was just about finished setting all the food up. <br /><br />I guess the 2 day preparation period was just enough. At one end of our apartment we had a few chairs and a couch facing a television playing Saw (I had intended on showing The Ring, but the DVD actually inside the case that I bought was Bob the Builder; no problem, it was only about 50 cents anyway), in the middle of the apartment was a good deal of open space for people to stand, near both the food table and the music speakers. In the other corner of the apartment we arranged the drink table and several couches for people to sit. Along with several bottles of alcohol (which I bet was an exciting sight for our Bangladeshi guests), my contribution was a pot of spiced warm apple cider. The food table was basically the size of a single bed and was completely filled, orange plastic spiders occupying any open black space. We had bowls of chocolate bars, pretzels, Skittles, Reese’s pieces, Oreos, Starbursts, and Twizzlers. I also covered lollipops with tissue and drew on ghost faces with marker; the stem of the lollipop was a plastic skeleton limb. My language partner was eating one while introducing himself to my friend; I wondered if he looked at all crazy with a small skeleton hand creeping out slightly from between his lips (along with a cigarette) as he ate the lollipop. We had a heaping bowl of Oreo dirt pudding. We had cups, plates, and silverware. We had the entire pumpkin custard tray out, and one of two pots of apple dumplings. Lastly, several Bangladeshis that came added ice cream and other sweets to the mix. Above the table we hung a shredded cloth/net. Next to the table we taped up a Frankenstein wall figure. On the inside of the front door we taped up a paper skeleton balancing himself with one foot on the lock and one hand gripping the top of the door. Cob webs garnished an entire cabinet built into the wall, along with our wall lights outfitted to hold candles. All cobwebs were complete with black plastic spiders. Candles lit the entire apartment. Orange and black streamers, orange and black balloons, the list continues. The food and candy was well-received by everyone, including our Bangladeshi class teachers and language partners who hadn’t tried such baked goods before. Keith fashioned the remaining cobwebs into a white beard; he dressed up as a celebrated Bangali poet and writer, Rabindranath Tagore. <br /><br />Conversation, music, good food, laughs, new and old faces, the party went like this until about 4 am. And who says Dhaka has no night life? Well, actually, yes, Dhaka has no night life. Before going to bed, Keith and I needed to move back all the furniture we had borrowed from the upstairs apartment before the cook came at 7 am to start breakfast. Somehow I bet our cook, Suranjan, would notice two couches, 4 chairs, and the entire dining room table missing. The apartment remained in its aftermath-party-destruction-yet-still-festively-decorated state for about 3 weeks. Finally, this morning Rasel (a housekeeper) and I dusted the floors and chipped off the solidified candlewax from the floors and shelves. And mopped and beat the rugs and washed the dishes etc etc. It put a smile on my face to see Rasel brush the corner where the ceiling meets the wall to get rid of spider webs, the light just underneath decked out with blatant thick artificial cobwebs. It must seem strange to decorate a home with what you actually clean out of it. <br /><br />Last weekend BLI sponsored a trip for the students. We went to Srimangal, destination in the east of Bangladesh famous for its tea gardens. Keith decided to stay in Dhaka because he had come down with a cold the day before and wanted to celebrate Kali Puja in the city over the weekend anyway; Christy decided to stay because she had already been there and had work to do; Biz was concerned about carsickness; the group that was left was me, Laule’a, Olinda, John, Razima (BLI director), and Atif (a Bangla teacher). We left very early on Friday morning to beat traffic, and it was a good idea too because on the way back in traffic the journey took twice as long. I sat in the front of our van, eager to soak in the more nature-related sights that one misses in the thick of urban Dhaka. After two CNG fuel refills, one stop for lunch, and 5 hours of napping, conversation, and music listening, we had arrived at our ‘resort’, a compound of family-sized bungalows. Don’t ask me to define bungalow. It was like being in a small house. ‘Bungalow’ and ‘resort’ make the place sound a bit more enchanting than it was; don’t get me wrong though, the brick roads weaved around green wooded areas, rolling tea gardens could be seen in the distance, and there were tennis courts, a pool, and a ping pong table. <br /><br />During our time there we visited tea gardens, a tea research institute, a small village (although I was rather disenchanted, our experience somehow flavored for visitors), and a guided tour through a thick state forest. We walked through the dense green foliage by following narrow soft sandy beds that run with water during rain. Massive spiders rested on webs that were strung between whole trees. Many times such webs would be weaved directly in our path. I kept a vigilant eye out for the critters, my height certainly increasing my likelihood of running into one of them, which happened once or twice. I dropped to the ground so quick and flung around so fast though that soon enough all the web would be off of me. The forest is known for a type of monkey but we didn’t see any. Olinda was terrified of the spiders and critter wildlife. As we existed the forest an hour later she turned to me with a crooked look on her face and asked what was on her ankle. She asked me again, with urgency and anxiety. As I looked down to where her shoe ended, I spotted blood and mentioned it was a leach. She started flipping out. Laule’a tried to calm her and removed the leach, bandaging her up after. It was evident Olinda was traumatized; tears could be seen on her face. We all though it strange, or rather comical, that she was the one to get a leach. Laule’a was also slightly jealous, she had wanted the experience to happen to her, maybe as a rite of passage or something; everyone who had visited the forest before had said that we’d get leaches. <br /><br />Before leaving Srimongal, we were sure to stop at the famous tea stand in the area that brewed 7-layer tea. Somehow it was made with 7 different teas or flavors, each with a different density so it would separate into layers with visibly different colors. On the car ride home Laule’a realized she was struck with sicknes; I also wasn’t feeling too great. The car ride for Laule’a must have been excruciating, we needed to make 3 vomit stops. I was grateful I wasn’t feeling nauseous, but was having strong stomach pain, extreme bloating, and excessive nasty-tasting burps. Never quite had an illness like that before. And, by the next morning, I was fine, ready to face the next week. <br /><br />In recent news, the political situation has started to heat up as we’re half way through the current prime minister’s term (year 3 of 5). As the opposing party (BNP, Bangladesh National Party) seeks to gain political momentum against the party in power (Awami League), it wouldn’t be surprising to receive word that they will declare a nationwide strike, or hartal, soon. I’m not sure with what frequency they occur, but we have had one already and there’s another tomorrow. Basically for us in Baridhara a hartal means that there’s no school and we don’t go in the city, mostly because transportation is offline and shops are closed. There is a concern for safety too, but at the same time my teachers have talked about how they loved hartals even as kids because they not only get off from school, but also get to watch exciting protests in the streets. You have a sense if the scene gets too heated and you need to leave. It’s an element of curiosity what the newspapers report the next day. What happened? Did the protests get out of control? Is there another strike tomorrow? Our first hartal was catalyzed by the BNP leader (also female) being ‘forced’ from her home because of legal land ownership reasons. Some articles say she was forced out without time to gather her things and her guards were slapped and she was treated so poorly. Other articles claim she was asked to leave after warnings from several days prior and then took hours packing her things and putting on makeup, yelling at the police when they asked her several hours later to hurry up. In any case, the opposing party was outraged and immediately declared the hartal the next day, sparking protests that rendered dozens of cars vandalized in the city as well as a few government-owned city buses set aflame. Not to worry, they get everyone off the bus before setting it on fire, it’s the government property they’re concerned about destroying, not people. <br /><br />Perhaps I’ll give a brief overview of what happens during an average day. You’ll be happy to know that generally I don’t come across busses engulfed in flames. At about 8 I lazily wake up and shower, making it to class by 9 hopefully. My showerhead is at eye-level, it’s too hard for me to use being so tall. I bucket shower like I did in India, which I like better anyway. Since the weather has been getting colder, the cups of night-chilled water I pour over myself are quite shocking. Sometimes I wake up early and run for exercise on the path by the nearby small lake, maybe once a week. We have 4 classes in a day, being introduced to vocab, having conversations, translating readings, translating audio and video clips, things like that. We have small breaks in between classes and sometimes I’ll sneak downstairs to the girl’s apartment where Suranjan would be preparing lunch and make myself a piece or two of toast with honey. Laundryman comes on Wednesdays and Sundays and returns the clothes folded and packages a few days later, usually. At 1 we have lunch, I still love Suranjan’s cooking. More often than not, I have a ton of food at lunch and nothing the rest of the day. Sometimes our conversations (well, mostly just Keith and I) will last for some time after lunch, but on Mondays and Wednesdays we’re off into the city. On Mondays Keith and I go to the American Center, the public affairs section of the US embassy, to talk with prospective Bangladeshi college applicants seeking education in the US about our experience at our US undergraduate institutions. I find myself championing the small-school liberal arts background that I received, and Keith does too. Most of the Bangladeshi students we come across seem to be interested in big name schools, although one who I was revising a personal statement for was applying to Lafayette College in Easton, PA; she’s also interested in Neuroscience. On Wednesdays Keith and I go to a private university about an hour away by walking to help conduct an introductory English class. My first day, the professor had a meeting, so the class was mine to run (Keith has a different class). Hey, my first teaching experience, unqualified, and I’m thrown into an undergraduate classroom unprepared. No worries, we just had conversation about random things. That’s what they need really, just to develop and ear for American English and for me to help re-phrase their speech if their communication doesn’t come across. The rest of the evenings I will do different things. I spend a lot of time on my bed writing, listening to music, reading, studying, or reviewing vocab. I spend little time on the internet, partly because I’m busy doing other things and partly because there are periods of time when the internet is completely off, sometimes for a whole week. Also it’s off when the power goes out. The power goes out for hour long periods sever times in the evening hours; the city simply doesn’t have enough power to function. Our apartment has a diesel-powered generator in the first level garage that kicks in, powering our fluorescent lights and fans (although not the microwave!). Sometimes I just use candlelight though. Usually I don’t eat dinner because I’m still full from lunch and the days just fly by anyway. My water comes from one of those 5 gallon jug dispenser things that is replaced whenever needed. A few times a week my BLI-arranged language partner, Minhaj, a 26 year old business student, and I will meet up to have conversations and practice Bangla. He’s incredibly patient with me and loves to practice his English as well. Communicating in Bangla is usually stimulating, trying to mold your thoughts in a different way than usual. Minhaj lives close to my apartment so usually I’ll go over to his place to get out of the house. Plus his roommates and cook are fun people. Sometimes I walk to the nearby bazaar for sweets or just to explore; sometimes I go to Gulshan-2, the closest city hubbub nearby, a massive intersection at its center reminding me of a Time’s Square analogy; there’s even a massive display screen with TV advertisements and stuff like that. Around that area there are tea stands and places that sometimes I’ll meet Bangladeshi’s to chat with. Fridays are great to travel into the city, there is much less traffic then because that’s the weeks holiday. I just about never get into a mode of transport during any part of the work week. Anywhere you go the traffic is so severe that you might as well walk, no matter how far. If I’ve been out on the streets, I will usually irrigate my sinuses through my nostrils with a plastic ketchup bottle I bought (it’ll have to double as a netty pot); it’s refreshing to blow out blackened mucus afterward. John’s been having trouble with his sinuses lately, I wonder if pollution is why. So, the days go like this mostly, always more people to chat with, always more Bangla to learn, and always making the effort to relax amongst it all. Hopefully I’m asleep by 12 or 1. During the nights, on my half-inch thick bed cushion on the floor, I sleep beautifully.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-26815537651188413212010-12-06T19:44:00.000+05:302010-12-06T19:45:05.017+05:30BarisalIt was Monday morning and as usual we were having our weekly test to greet the new academic week. However, this Monday wasn’t the beginning of the week, but the end. Tomorrow started the much anticipated Eid holiday break, which lasted from Tuesday all the way through Sunday, giving us 4 days off from class. Most of us Fulbrighters were taking this time to adventure out of the city: Christy to Malaysia, John and Laule’a to the beach hotspot Cox’s Bazaar, and Keith to Sylet to seek out some spiritual progress. <br /><br />I had attempted to manage a means to travel to Chittagong (Bangladesh’s most well-known city outside of Dhaka) in order to meet up with my language partner and visit his village outside the city there. Despite the complications of buying a train ticket in Bangladesh (for instance, there is no web-based system for this like in India), a fascinating option exists through the phone service where you can actually reserve tickets through an automated program over the mobile. After dozens of attempts with different classes and trains and dates, I realized that everything was booked solid. Additionally, John had tried to get bus tickets down to that direction of the country and was met with no option other than to resort to flying; the buses were packed with reservations. Evidently this was a holiday that certainly involved travel for many Bangladeshis. Even in the newspaper there was an article about how difficult it was going to be this year to find means of transportation for Bangladeshis to meet their families in other locations of the country. Although I could have visited the train station to see if there were train bookings available through direct reservation, I decided against that struggle, not only because I knew the train station would be packed and my limited Bangla skills could prevent me from getting the right ticket, but also because if I did get a ticket, I knew that it might be at the cost of someone returning home for the holiday celebration. In the mood for something new, I decided to see what it would be like to travel in Bangladesh by launch boat. Perhaps there was a way I could get to Chittagong by sea. Who knew? And if not, as long as I could board a boat I would end up somewhere new outside of Dhaka, and that was my number one priority for the break. High time for a change of scenery and a little less structure in the day-to-day routine I’ve sunk into in the comfortable enclave of Dhaka’s posh Baridhara. After class finished that Monday, and after a quick bite to eat, the backpack was packed with a few changes of clothes, plenty of medical-related products just in case, a new book, and an inflatable pillow and bed sheet. Nothing of massive value. I filled up the water bottle, and was on my way to the local bus station. I had one destination in mind: Dhaka’s most famous port, Shadarghat. <br /><br />A massive water-fearing entry and exit point of the city, Shadarghat would be the place to go to find a launch boat leading outside of the city. It’s no small journey from our northern lair in Baridhara; Shadarghat lies in Dhaka’s deep south. I was on a bus by about 3:30. No problem, I would be able to get there in plenty of time to hopefully find a boat before they departed that evening. Traffic was slow. The bus crept at a pace that never quite exceeded a walking pace it seemed. 4:30. Now we spent most of our time halted in gridlocked traffic. At least I wasn’t standing like many of the others on the bus, although the leg space was a tad insufficient, and my knees jutted into the seat in front of me. No matter, it was plenty distracting just observing the outside traffic. Darkness fell. As we neared the older part of the city, cow markets took up half of the road space. With the family purchase and consumption of a cow being the centerpiece of this holiday, hundreds and hundreds were lined up. If I knew where to walk to get to Shadarghat, I would have gotten off the bus in a heartbeat. Many people would get on, wait for an hour, and in frustration decide to walk instead because we simply were not moving. The work day was over, everyone was on their way for Eid break, and in bulk, people were bottlenecking to Shadarghat to board a launch to reunite with family outside the city. <br /><br />By the time we had finally gotten there, 4 hours had passed (for the same distance, only 20 minutes is required without traffic). A man on the bus I was talking to was also headed to the ghat, and ultimately to the same place I had in mind, Barisal. I heard rumors of a launch service from there to Chittagong; plus it is supposed to be a great place to spend some relaxing time anyway. The man, a brightness about his face all the while, led me though hoards of cars, trucks, and luggage-laden people to the area of the ghat for Barisal-directed launches. The ghat itself, a massive dock, was indescribably jammed with humanity. Massive three and four story docked launch boats extended down the ghat, every one just the same: filled to the brim with people occupying any possible open space, even on the roof. We somehow managed our way to one of the 4 or 5 heading to Barisal. I ascended to the top level to witness the frenzied hollering and thousands and thousands of people cramming the dock and squeezing across narrow wooden planks onto the massive launches, luggage in hand. The hundreds of cabins on the launch were completely booked well in advance; I knew the deck was where I’d spend the night. The bright-eyed bearded man and I found a small spot on the deck on the nose of the upper level, just enough space to spread out about half a bed sheet. We and a few nearby others exchanged some bread, fruit, and conversation before lying down for sleep. I had hoped to pee before sleeping. No hope though, every square inch of the aisles alongside the edge of the boat leading back to the bathrooms was already claimed by sleepy stakeholders. The steel deck was hard on the shoulder if I slept on my side so I woke up several times. The air was crisp, just enough to see your breath if you were paying attention. A slight humid wind constantly sieved its way over the deck, making my hair dance. The bodies strewn all about, covered with blankets, resembled what I imagine a rescue boat would have looked like for the Titanic. The stars glimmered overhead, spanning my whole vision when I laid on my back, the faint streak milky way visible too. <br /><br />Abruptly being awoken by the blaring horn just above our heads, eventually I rose (with no hope of falling back to sleep) to see what we kept honking at. We were in a thick fog, the kind where our visibility was even worse when we shined the powerful watch light ahead. Traveling at a snail’s pace, we had no other way of warning other boats that we were in the area other than periodic flashes of light and bellowing horns and sirens. At the railing of the deck, I could hear the engine hum of another ship before I could see its lights. It’s humming got louder and louder. The diesel chug sounds eventually were so audible they could practically be our own. Finally a glow emerged from the fog; the ferry was just to our left, and we turned slightly to avoid collision. A few minutes later though, we weren’t so lucky. Peering into the fog, suddenly I saw bright flashlights flick on ahead of us. The light beams started moving frantically. We continued forward. Then the shouts began. From the direction of the waving flashlights, within a few seconds the shouts erupted into crosses between hollers and shrieks from these unknown sea-fearing men. People arose from our deck to see what was going on. Suddenly from the fog the metal hull of a boat emerged into view just meters from the nose of our launch. My eyes widened, as I realized an oblique collision was imminent. The whole deck shook as the edges of the boats made contact. Loud metal crunching noises pierced the air and showers of sparks flickered. The shrieks of the men (now visible) became bellows of enormous anger. Our deck occupants lined the railing, observing the chaos but saying nothing in reply, as if watching a movie. Perhaps people weren’t surprised; at the docking ghats the launches will jolt as they nudge into each other. However did seem out of the norm, at least, I imagined it must have been. Our launch continued forward, its momentum unchangeable. We plowed into another parked boat, adjacent to the first. I couldn’t tell what this was, but it seemed that these boats were parked for a reason, and that we were really breaking something, perhaps a rig of some kind. Metal continued to clang and creak amidst feverish shouting from the boatmen. After creeping to a stop, we backed up and the shouts from the men continued. Amidst thick fog, I still didn’t know what kind of structure/boat we laid such heavy damage to. Altering our direction, we continued forward, and the deck-fearers reassembled themselves like a puzzle, resettling onto the now dewy and slippery metal deck. Still wide-eyed, I stayed at the railing of the deck for some time, eventually detecting our port of arrival as sounds and lights leaked through the lessening fog, thinning as the sunrise approached. <br /><br />Although a flood of people flowed from 4 or 5 massive launch boats into Barisal, the ghat itself was only just big enough for the ships to park themselves. Waiting for some time until the crowd lessened, I made my way to the ghat to explore around a bit. After asking around, the majority consensus was that there was indeed a launch boat to Chittagong, but it only left weekly on Fridays. And with that, I realized that my Eid vacation would be spent here in Barisal. The last person I was questioning about Chittagong launches was about my age and he spoke more English (although still clumsy and difficult to understand) than the market men and boat men around. I asked if I could join him to wherever he was heading. Fortunately, it was a walk along the beautiful riverside. He had come to the ghat to enjoy the sunrise. As we walked along the brick path that lined the riverside, with broken conversation we introduced ourselves (his name was Emon) and he would answer questions I had about anything from the crops I’d see growing by the river to the massive rusted ship yard that looked like something from a ghost town. <br /><br />After about half a mile, he invited me to a park where he plays cricket. In addition to a cricket game going on, there was also a soccer game being played as well as dozens of people walking the circumference of the rectangular park. With many pumping their arms dramatically, it was nice to see such activity so early in the morning. Eventually I was introduced to the whole group of cricketers, all about my age. I filled my water bottle up at a tube well that people were drinking from. Although I had hesitation, Emon guaranteed that the water (unlike in Dhaka) was safe to drink here and was very fresh. Aside from the slight sulfury aftertaste, the water indeed was fine, and in fact for my whole stay in Barisal (much to my enjoyment) I never needed to buy bottled water and never fell ill. Emon directed me across town to where he and many of his friends live. Barisal is certainly smaller than Dhaka, the wide streets lined with buildings that never exceeded a few stories. Traffic that day was non-existent; a lack of jams in an urban environment was certainly something I welcomed. I saw few cars too, perhaps that’s one reason for less traffic. On the streets you’d mostly see cycle rickshaws and electric rickshaws, reminiscent of Dhaka’s green CNGs but much quieter and newer-looking too. Cycles and electric rickshaws? I guess there was nothing left to pollute the air other than the occasional motorcycle. Emon directed me to a hotel across from his house. For 200 taka a night (3 dollars), the room was comfortably equipped with a bathroom, sink, cabinet, thin mattress on the bedframe, clean sheets, a mosquito net, and even a small couch and table. Despite the early morning, I was off in no time with one of Emon’s cricket friends, Sukhen, to a Hindu village to observe a famous festival there.<br /><br />Sukhen, my age, is an art student. In fact, upon first meeting him, he quickly drew me a picture of two chickens. The bulk of Sukhen’s friends are also artists, as well as many poets. It was nice to see so many engaging in studies other than the banal Dhaka business and economics academic scene. Barisal in fact was the academic center of the country before Dhaka emerged as the main area. Sukhen spoke little English, but somehow his gazing eyes communicated what was needed in conversation. That and a mouth that was either thoughtfully silent or smiling. <br /><br />The village we went to was named Koloshkati and required the means of a mini-bus, cycle rickshaws, a ferry, and a small river boat to reach. We had about 6 people in our group (including a professor of poetry in Barisal, a lecturer of sculpture from Dhaka University, and a few of Sukhen’s friends), none of whom had seen the festival before. Upon entering the main part of the village, we bought some jilebi (small funnel cake-like morsels steeped in sugar syrup) and had some tea as people gathered around to witness the white man in town. The village is known for its pottery, so we went around learning about their trade and would occasionally run into a puja site, where colorful and ornately decorated museum display-sized gods were housed in cloth rimmed huts. The displays usually had several characters in them acting out a scene, usually with a smiling delicate-faced god nonchalantly piercing the body of some warrior underneath her with a spear; or also I saw the warrior underneath being attacked by a clawed animal. Blood (sometimes distractingly neon pink) seemed always part of the scene, again however the serene and colorful god or panel of gods being the center of focus. <br /><br />Although the sites of the village were enjoyable, I found myself distracted by how easily annoyed I was at being shoveled to one place followed by another. Commanding “Matt! Where are you?” and “MATT come see this!” statements were never far away, always seeming to distract me from what I was enjoying. Interestingly enough, it seemed that our opinions of what needed to be seen in the village differed. Perhaps I’d be interested in gazing at an ancient brick structure for some time or a chicken coop; yet I was usually led shortly thereafter to yet another Hindu god display or yet another site where villagers were making pottery. In this way, it not only mattered what each of us wanted to see in the village, but what my hosts intended for me to experience in the village. It wasn’t as if we were a group of friends negotiating where to go, I was a foreign guest and my hosts seemed to take upon themselves the burden of not only showing me a ‘good’ time, but also exposing me to the ‘culture’ that they thought I was interested in: the quaint or exotic aspects of the village that a tourist might photograph for example. <br /><br />Of course fortunately not everything was about me; the others had a high time snapping their photos away, capturing over and over again elements of the village that they don’t get to see in the city. My silent criticisms of this made me feel even more distant than where I already was in the group dynamic, characterized thusfar by disparate nationalities and language barriers. However, this somehow carved out the space for me to live the experience in my own way, despite the attempts of the others to structure exactly what I was doing and seeing. I felt more aware about what I wanted to observe of the village in reaction to what I knew I didn’t want. I realized how I had consumed quaint and exotic elements of a different life in the past to no personal avail, and how now I realized I was more interested in focusing on one striking place or building in the village, or perhaps by making small talk with a shopkeeper across the creek. Being more deeply involved with my own experience rather than living it through the others in the group or through the robotic initiatives of cultural consumption and specticalization adds a refreshing element of liberation and self-definition to how I recall that experience.<br /><br />I soon realized, as we returned to the main part of town, that the streets were filled with about 4 times as many people. Darkness had fallen but ‘Christmas’ lights hung abundantly above the streets warmly lighting the activity below, and of course the large puja sites with scene recreations punctuated the environment with not only intense light but also usually blaring music from oversized speakers. Crowds would inevitably gather around me if my stride broke to wait for part of our group or if we stopped somewhere. When this would happen I would usually either gaze back smiling or drift my eyes above the heads (not a hard job with my relative height) to something interesting. Sometimes I would single out a person in the crowd to have a few questions with, and similarly sometimes someone would come forward and ask about my background if he were comfortable enough with English. Never once did I feel threatened, although maybe a tad embarrassed that I sometimes couldn’t dampen my wide silly smile at the beaming crowd. <br /><br />Caught amidst the surroundings of a thick crowd, someone from our group motioned for me to sneak over in his direction to see another puja site. With an exasperated sigh I followed him down an alley, preferable to me and a herd of Bengalis staring at each other. As we turned the corner my jaw dropped. A mass of hundreds of people gazed forward at a giant holy scene recreation that was being lit solely by the piercing beams of thousands of spinning green lasers as if in some overwhelming sort of dance club. Pulsing music throbbed and gave additional life to the scene, the center god’s serene smile and peaceful half-closed eyes unaffected by the commotion around it. I absorbed all of this for about 2 seconds before the power went off and everything went black. As if a fleeting flicker of consciousness imprinted the image, in the blackness with a confused but awestruck face I considered whether or not I actually observed such a sight. Those around me, including the friends I was with, didn’t make any hint that they thought the scene was over-the-top. Yep, just another normal sight in the throngs of a Hindu festival. I imagined such a light and sound show pervading the space of a large Christian church. Moments like that smack you upside the head and say “So, did you FORGET that you’re in a place that operates completely differently than what you’re accustomed to?! Don’t pretend that you actually know what to expect here all the time.” <br /><br />After being invited to sit in a special central seating area at the town’s main puja scene (again, crowd-formulating) and being offered traditional prasad/sweets, we made our way to the entrance of the town. With a heartfelt goodbye to a few of the locals that I had been conversing with, we were off. Within minutes we were in the soothing calmness of dark leafy forests and rice paddies. The hour-and-a-half or so journey back to Barisal was eventless aside from our recollections of the village, and aside from the exhilarating ride we were able to hitch in the back of a truck that rocketed down the road, jarring us back and forth on our benches with sudden breaking if a pedestrian tred to closely.<br /><br />That evening I had dinner at Shukhen’s home. His family is Hindu and vegetarian, so the meal consisted of rice, fried eggplant, dal, and various vegetable dishes. The next day, however, was Eid, and I was invited into Emon’s home to have lunch. That whole morning all the cows I mentioned before were being sacrificed. Walking through town in the afternoon, you could see the carcasses being skinned, gutted and chopped on large straw mats on the sides of the road and in garages. I had been preparing myself for such gore. Initially I had reacted strongly against the holiday’s violent nature. Then I started thinking about Thanksgiving in the US. And also Keith had mentioned that he imagined more cows were slaughtered in Texas slaughterhouses daily than during the whole of Eid Holiday here in Bangladesh. I suppose I believe it, I mean, although Bangladesh is a heavily populated country and there are lots of families to buy cows, there are sure a lot of cow eaters in the US, and many of such eaters consume excessive portions. Or the restaurants serve excessive portions and said cow eater may or may not consume the whole thing. My point is that how can we put a negative value judgment on exposed cow slaughter when we slaughter to a greater degree and just aren’t as aware about it? So in terms of cow volume consumption perhaps an objective comparison between countries can be made. And what of exposure? Is THAT where my uneasiness directed at Eid lies? What does that have to do with such uneasiness exactly? Am I concerned about sanitation? No, not really, that’s not what it feels like. The cow is consumed readily and cooked thoroughly anyway; I feel uneasy about the gore, not about the prospect of people becoming sick. But, do I really not think that such gore and blood is not inevitable in the process of cow slaughter? Why don’t I have the same reactive feelings, and to a greater degree, every day in the US, where only God knows how many cows are processed in those slaughterhouses? Is it really just that I don’t see it? Does that mean that I’m not aware of it? No, not really, I mean I know about it. Does it mean that I’m not AS aware about it as I would be if such slaughter volume were occurring out in public, say, in the streets of Manhattan? Does it really require shoving something like that in my face to make me realize its nature? Hmm. Two answers. 1) Maybe not: It’d like to believe that I can understand that a cow was slaughtered for my access to, say, a hamburger. 2) Maybe: Perhaps the distance that exists between me and the cow that produced my meal in the US—how removed I am from the system of food process—does indeed determine how I feel about the food. If I had to kill a cow to eat a hamburger, would I do it? And if I did, what would the hamburger mean to me? Compare that sentiment with what I’d feel if I walked into a McDonald’s for a quick bite before hurrying off to some friend’s house or an afternoon class or something. In the two scenarios, when would I be more likely to finish my hamburger? And when would I be more thankful for the hamburger? We call turkey day Thanksgiving. Is it possible to be completely thankful for that turkey I’m eating if I’m not experientially aware of the process that preceded its display on the dinner table? And yes, the process extends farther back than the drive to the grocery store. <br /><br />In any case, perhaps the thought experiment and questioning put me more at ease with the holiday. Or maybe less at ease with the food system in the US? Lunch at Emon’s house consisted of rice, dal, cucumber tomato salad, and of course, beef curry. More and more they kept adding to my plate, even though before every time they would serve I would claim I didn’t need it. In fact, লাগবে না (‘lagbe na’, I don’t need; literally, it doesn’t strike me) became one of the most frequent things I would say in a host’s home. Rampant hospitality. I quickly learned that not whether or not I said I didn’t need more, but the degree of force behind it, determined how much more I’d be served. The force needed behind a লাগবে না that would actually keep the food of my plate necessitated wild waving hand movements. I guess they sure did have the cow to give anyway, a cow indeed has a lot of beef on it. The entire meat load on the cow is consumed, and the load is divided like this: 1/3 to the household, 1/3 to extended family, and 1/3 to beggars and other poor who come to the home in search of it. As the price of a cow is anywhere around $500 to $1,500 USD, getting a heap of beef must elicit quite the excitement for someone living in poverty. <br /><br />That evening I was invited to another friend’s home for dinner, consisting of a similar food spread. From what I can tell, Hindus don’t observe the holiday. Not only does it have its religious origins from a story in the Koran (the same story, with a few key twists, is in the Bible…was it Abraham that was told by God to sacrifice his son? The son turned into a goat or cow I think; he was tested but didn’t actually end up with the consequence of his son’s death like he thought), but also, as you might be aware, cows are held in a higher esteem in the Hindu custom. Although I could imagine a strong reaction from Hindus against such slaughter, I didn’t sense any aside from the benign acknowledgement that customs between the faiths are disparate. Although I don’t claim to know how members of each faith actually feel about each other, I suppose it’s worth mentioning that from my experience the friendships between Hindus and Muslims and amongst their families were just as strong as any other; literally and metaphorically speaking, let’s just say that despite creed, they play on the same cricket field. <br /><br />The next day in the late afternoon Emon and his family took me to their relative’s ‘gai holud’ (meaning ‘yellow body’) which is a ceremony for the bride the day before her wedding. Her body is yellow because turmeric paste is smeared on her face which is thought to improve beauty and complexion. A large area was partitioned off by colorful bedsheet-like cloth and the bride sat on a canopied raised surface at one end. Maybe 150-200 family members sat in plastic chairs around the area, the space in the middle open so people could walk around and dance (really only the kids would do that though). Upon entering the area I was swept into a frenzy, arguably completely the result of my presence. “MATT eat this sweet! MATT eat another!! Matt smear this thick yellow paste on the brides face!! MATT SIT” ‘ No thanks’ “NO NO, SIT!! MATT have another sweet! MATT IT’S TIME TO DANCE!” Ke$ha’s Tik Tok started blasting from a sound system and a circle of people formed around me. Three girls incolorful sparkley dresses emerged in front of me and started dancing, their hands and fingers moving deliberately as if to tell a story. And thus went the gai holud. <br /><br />I was really not into the whole play guest thing at the beginning, not only because it was somewhat overwhelming but also because I had intercultural concerns. Was it ok that I was taking just about all the attention away from the bride? Why was it expected that I dance? Because somehow it’s understood that ‘Americans’ dance more than Bangladeshis or what? I mean, no Bangladeshi over my age was dancing there, and anyone I’d try to get to dance would smile and refuse. In America, I indeed don’t dance often, at least I don’t think. And what if somehow my dancing came across as sexualized? Through a perspective (Bangladeshi) that has been tempered with media to understand the American as a sexually loose individual, such looseness would be readily projected onto me, as if perspectives see exactly what they want to see. I mean, I didn’t grow up learning to dance with the artistic wavy arm motions that the girls did, nor did I simply jump up and down like the children. For so many there, their only impression of this American was this center-of-attention dancing fool. I mean who knows, maybe it wasn’t an issue, and by the end of the night I realized that I was having a lot of fun. Nonetheless, the felt that the space for cultural misinterpretation was wide.<br /><br />Everyone there was inviting me by the end of the night to the actual wedding the day after. I had planned to go with Shukhen however to his village that day. In the evening back at Emon’s house, the family would literally not accept that I would not come to the wedding. Hmm, rock and a hard place. I wish Emon had told me about the wedding before, I had made plans already. Yet the begging that Emon’s 2 aunts projected at me was massive. I called Shukhen’s brother, Sujen, to see if we could go the day after. What I got out of the phone conversation was relatively unclear. I have learned to accept more readily an unclear social environment, they happen all the time due to so many barriers and disparate ways of interpretation. See that’s one interesting thing about an unclear social environment, and one reason that I imagine is a rationale for this kind of travel. Although it’s incredibly frustrating, it can also be so informative. When you scrape away the familiarity that you have from a social context, what is left? If we communicate in English here, you certainly can’t phrase things the way you would in America. If I communicate i ‘Bangla, I certainly can’t directly translate my speech into Bangla the way it’s most effectively used by native speakers. Rather it’s about how to communicate, and that’s a relative method steeped in colloquialisms that are propagated by familiarity. Take ‘I don’t need’. That doesn’t translate 1:1. But you can communicate this through ‘it doesn’t strike me’. Suddenly, you realize you can’t hide behind familiar social fluidity. You need to become more and more direct, more and more honest, more and more simple in order to communicate. That changes your conceptualization of yourself and the world in a way. If anything, you realize that it can be so jarring to have the familiar rug of mutually understood social conventions pulled out from under you. Two ways to look at this, at least the two that I’ve understood. 1) This is a massive inconvenience and I feel horribly uncomfortable. 2) In a new way I see that the bulk of who I think I am and how I understand things around me is not an objective measurement, but assembled though a uni-dimensional system of social conventions that is relative to and separate from others around it. So then, again, the question becomes…what is left? To clarify, I am not asking to suggest that there is nothing; and really, it’s the question itself rather than any answers I’ve found that has been so informative. So, when I take away the conventions that have defined me and my perspective, when I take away the social system that has become invisibilized by day-after-day familiarity…what of me, and of how I understand what’s around me, is left?<br /><br />In any case, eventually I ‘understood’ that we would leave tomorrow morning for Sujen’s village and would be back in the evening for the wedding. Good, have my cake and eat it too. Into the night, Emon’s aunts insisted that I keep dancing at their house, I’m not exactly sure why, maybe they liked to see their kids so happy dancing too. Emon’s aunts are a bubbly giggly couple to say the least. I probably got fed at their house that evening too, I can’t remember. Emon was living up his role as host by incessantly asking if I had any problems or if I was bored. What an annoying question. Few things made my hair stand on end with rage than “Matt, are you feel boring?” I’m not exaggerating my anger. First of all, this leads me to believe that I’m coming across as bored, and that this is read as a problem that the host takes responsibility for. I question my behavior and the motivations behind it. Am I bored? Is my frustration with being forced to sit, dance, or eat being read as boredom? The Bangladeshi host seems to take it upon him/herself to ensure that boredom does not arise. There is incredible anxiety about how the guest’s experience is going. In fact, I got the question asked all the time about whether or not I was feeling good or bad. And then, after answering ‘good’ for obvious reasons, the question that followed was ‘how good?’ What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Do you expect me to answer with incredibly amazingly fantastic blow-my-mind ecstasy every time you ask? And if I don’t, do you really think that there is some *problem* that you need to fix so that I can get there? I hate qualifying my experience so rudimentarily, as simply as, for instance, having money or not having money. Because of such anxiety about my experience though, there is no way to avoid the probing, there is no way to avoid having to communicate your experience all the time, and continually re-evaluate it rather than simply living it. So then you realize this anxiety and you take it upon yourself to feel anxious too. I mean, if it’s such a big deal, then I guess I need to at least look happy. But all the time? I mean, I need to stop smiling at some point. I need to sit and think at some point, rather than interact and party it up the whole time. So then I feel coerced into putting on a happy face and demeanor whether or not the inside reflects it. In my quest for what genuineness is, this appears to be a step in the opposite direction. Who knows, maybe it’s my American individualism, but I don’t like having the quality of my experience taken responsibility for by another. My experience comes from me, not you. A bored time, an angry time, is my job to deal with, not yours. I don’t even know what I want or know what kinds of experiences will be pleasing for me or lead me in the right direction most of the time, so how can you? AND why does my experience have to be about having a “good time”?? I did not come to Bangladesh to have a *good time* a *comfortable and enjoyable* experience. Go to a resort in the Caribbean for that. I came to learn, grow, see, participate, question…these arguably enough involve more often than not UNcomforability. But this is the system, you’re the host, and I’m the guest. In the eyes of my Bangladeshi hosts, it’s their job to make me as comfortable as possible, and the more happy I am, the better host you are. So. Now double the frustration, because there is no way that I can possibly communicate all of this. The question is asked. In an instant, you flush with this whole problematic narrative at the tip of your tongue and consciousness. And then you reply. “No, I’m fine, thank you.” Because that’s just the way it goes. <br /><br />Ok, next day. I was off to Sujen’s house at 4:30 am so we could leave by launch boat for the village. At the house I again asked if we’d be back by evening so I could go to Emon’s family member’s wedding. My heart sank at the answer I knew I was going to get. Of course there was miscommunication last night about exactly when we’d be at the village, having things work out the way you think they will is too perfect. It would indeed be impossible to return in time, but we decided that Sujen would write directions for me, and I’d meet him, Shukhen, and their family there the next day. Sujen was incredibly reluctant about it, well, anxious I suppose. How would I be able to navigate the buses and rickshaws alone? Of course it helps to have someone with you to show you the way. But then, you don’t learn the way. And I navigate transportation systems based on solely asking around all the time. I guess it took a while for Sujen to realize that I wasn’t like his idea of foreigners, although he’s befriended many through the NGO he had worked for. Sujan also was concerned for my sake that there was no Western style toilet at the village. Ha. <br /><br />After Sujen and his family left their home, I was all dressed up with nowhere to go, so I decided to head to the cricket field to see the morning game my friends had invited me to. Cricket is such a big deal here that usually people are really surprised when I tell them it’s not played in the US. At the cricket field I met a 12 year old who didn’t speak English but talked in a captivating way nonetheless, especially about the Hare Krishnas and his Hindu faith. Also his vegetarianism. Although I didn’t pick up most of what he said during our interactions, our communication encapsulates how during my time at Barisal, there was little to no way for me to use English. Sujen was really the only person (aside from one student who had lived in the US before) that I met during my time there who could have a conversation with me in English. Over the week, by speaking capacity in Bangla grew tremendously. The perfect environment to put the material in Bangla class to work. No way does language capacity grow in the confinement of a classroom. The boy showed me around a part of Barisal and we visited several temples. He also took me to his house to meet his family and of course have some homemade snacks.<br /><br />Emon’s family asked that I wear new clothes to the wedding. Evidently the cleanliness of clothing rather than the actual content of clothing was what mattered most; Emon was wearing jeans, black boots, and a black t-shirt that had a cartoon of a green monster killing something, maybe a zombie. Jeans, interestingly enough, seem to be perceived as more formal than I’m used to, maybe because of how they are ‘cool’ being associated with Western culture. “Affliction” was written across the chest of Emon’sshirt in bloody letters. Must have been some band. Adolescent and young-mid age Bangladeshis seem to be in to heavy metal death…rock moshpit whatever. In fact, when I gave a seminar a few weeks ago about music education in the US at the public affairs section of the US embassy in Dhaka, someone had specifically come just to ask me whether or not I could clarify the difference between…what was it…sadistic metal and heavy metal? That question was probably prompted by me discussing something like the Candlelight Carols Advent lessons and carols service that is held at Muhlenberg. Yes, we come from different places. Anyway, Emon also wore oversized sunglasses and loved having pictures taken of him with a mocho look on his face. His hair was bulked in the back to form a pseudo mullet. I’m not sure what style to call this. No wait, that’s right, wedding…it’s wedding attire. <br /><br />You can imagine the extended family I was with yesterday for gai holud was ecstatic that I had come to the wedding. The wedding was held in a large concrete wedding hall. Several hundred people attended. Many tables filled the main area. In a smaller room to the side the bride sat on her platform, dressed beautifully but slouching and looking down, her face expressionless, kindof like yesterday too. I was surprised to see that even during photos she was simply gazing at the ground. The groom sat on a platform that was centered and visible from the main hall. We all had pulao (amazing rice), beef, chicken, dal, sweets and stuff for dinner. I fed the groom some beef. With my hand. Dancing followed, mostly it was just me and those girls. Although the groom’s siblings—or were they friends—took the spotlight for a few songs, their dancing erupting with such ferocious energy that anyone in the way of their whipping arms and legs would have immediately been toppled over. The groom sat by the bride at the end. Everyone was taking pictures. The bride started crying loudly, nestling her head on her father’s shoulder beside her, hugging him tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. From this day onward, she was now living in a new home. I spent most of my time with Emon’s younger cousins, Rafi and Tisham (9 and 11). I had grown quite fond of our company over the past few days. Not only did we have fun dancing together, but they didn’t monopolize my time and experience like their older family members. In a way, I felt that we were friends on a more even level despite our age difference. I sensed that they liked me as a person rather than as a foreigner. Who knows. However, I do know that Emon’s aunts were basically constantly piddling the whole time when I was in their presence. Would they be that excited for any old Bangladeshi guest? The wedding was over in about 2 hours, and that was fine because I wanted to make it an early night; the next day I would travel to Sujen and Shukhen’s village. <br /><br />Sujen had me up at the crack of dawn with a new plan he texted me. Instead of coming by slow launch from Barisal to Bhola, I could take a series of buses and speedboats to reach Bhola faster. Hey, I was up for an adventure. Backpack in hand, having checked out of the guest house room, I headed to Barisal’s port river as the sky grew brighter blue with the approach of dawn and the misty dampness in the streets from the chilly night before started to thin. At the river I took a small boat across to the other side, a rural area. Dodging some muddy spots in the dirt road, I asked around for the bus stop and waited there for the bus that would take me to the edge of the island I was on, to a small port called Laharhat. The bus ride took about half an hour and went straight through rice cultivation land. At Laharhat, consisting of a few tin huts selling chips, tea, and biscuits, the island dropped off and the winding riverways began. The price for the speedboat would be least per person if I waited until there were 10 going, so as I waited, I gave the parents a call. Mom and Dad were at a ski house in the mountains in Pennsylvania where the temperature was freezing and where the time was night. I was stepping into a speedboat at sea level not only on the other side of the world but also at the opposite time of day. And yet, our conversation was held as if in person. <br /><br />The speedboat was an amazing trip, although only lasting about 20-30 minutes. I had no idea how our steerer knew where to go, I mean, obviously there are no signs, and the riversways are sometimes wide enough to hide the far coast, sometimes not, sometimes straight and sometimes branching. We passed several fishermen and several villages. I realized that this was more along the lines of what ‘Bangladesh’ is. There is all this anxiety and contention about what a real or genuine experience is in travel, and it’s easy to make the argument that being held up in a well-off area of Dhaka is not the ‘real’ Dhaka. Well, then you get to the old city, and we can call this the ‘real’ Dhaka. But then, you realize that this is not how the majority of the city lives. So is it really the ‘real’ Dhaka, or is it just the fantasized and exoticised quaintness that we prioritize in travel experience, somehow qualifying our travel in a more distinct way simply because we visited a place that was so different? Additionally, you can make the argument that even in Dhaka, no matter where you are, you aren’t experiencing the ‘real’ Bangladesh. Again, there is this exoticism that is seemingly at work here, understanding—or maybe consuming—the quaintness of a simple and pure lifestyle as a more ‘authentic’ experience. I asked myself, was I finally here? Did it require an overnight launch and a bus and a rickshaw and a speedboat? When was my experience authentic *enough* or reflective *enough* of what ‘Bangladesh’ is. I don’t claim to know the answers to these questions, but I do know now that my following village experience turned out to be something that will permanently influence what Bangladesh means to me as well as the mental framework I build over time to understand the country. <br /><br />So, after the speedboat I was in Bheduria, where I could catch a bus to go to the Bhola bus station. I had thought that Sujen would meet me at Bhola, but unfortunately we crossed paths and he was approaching Bheduria as I was leaving, Another communication issue, you know how it goes. I guess I wasn’t surprised, Sujen had been calling me every ten minutes to make sure I was ok and to check on where I was, it makes sense that he would keep pushing back the location of our meeting so we could travel together the maximum amount of time. Indeed, at least after the Bhola bus station, his guidance would be crucial to locate the village. <br /><br />Anyway, at the Bhola bus station I had about 15 minutes to spend before Sujen would arrive. I tried to make my way to a small tea stall for some chips or something, but was stopped by some curious onlookers. Quickly a crowd formed. It was evident that foreigners didn’t frequent this area. In no time, the head person for the bus stand had invited me to sit in his office area. So, the crowd of about 30-40 and me relocated. The bus manager sat me down right across from his desk, people surrounding us in the large room as if we were in the ring of a wrestling match or something. The conversation we had I remember being really enjoyable. Good combination of English and Bangla. I noticed his red-stained lips and teeth and asked if he enjoyed paan. Paan is cultivated in this area, Sujen was telling me. Must be very fresh here. He let out a hearty laugh when I said that I also sometimes have paan (although hopefully not ever enough to stain my teeth like I’ve seen some people have). Paan in India had been loaded with all kinds of powders and accessories and sweet things and bells and whistles like that, producing a juicy explosion of flavor. Paan in Bangladesh has been comparatively extremely plain, simply consisting of the essential ingredients: the deep green paan leaf, crushed supari nut, and some white lime paste if wanted. During this trip I’ve finally grown to appreciate such simplicity. The manager had someone bring in not only tea but also biscuits and a whole plate of paan leaves/supari nut/lime paste/tobacco. I left the tobacco and lime paste for another day (the lime feels like it dissolves my skin away, leaving areas so sensitive that it’s hard to eat for days afterward). The leaf itself has a strong kicking bite to its taste, as if the flavonoids are so concentrated that it’s spicy. The supari nut leaves the mouth with a chalky, rubbery feeling that’s also cleansing somehow. The combination of the two produces not only redness but also narcotic and digestive effects. <br /><br />Usually I can’t ‘feel’ the effects of paan, but today I had had nothing to eat before, and perhaps the freshness of the leaf here increased its potency. I realized my awareness flickering around a bit, and dizziness set in. Sujen showed up soon after, surprised to see the huge crowd around me. It was good he was here, I didn’t really want to talk more, just use my energy to make sure I wasn’t going to throw up or anything. Additionally, Sujen’s bilingual-ness prompted the conversation to take much deeper levels. He could say things to them that I couldn’t say in Bangla and he could translate what I couldn’t understand of their reply. How comparatively insubstantial the conversation would have been without his valuable help, a capacity that I came across in no one else in my week of travel. There were periods of 5 minutes or so when they were all conversing in Bangla; I was fine to observe though, picking out words here and there. When I see conversations taking place in Bangla, more often than not I understand the conversation as taking angry turns and folding in frustrated yelling. I think that’s more just how the language is communicated rather than actual mal-intent. It’s fun to watch. Then afterwards I’ll be like, hey, Sujen, what did you guys talk about? Maybe he’ll be like “Oh, our families, yeah, he mentioned his brother’s job and stuff.” <br /><br />Sujen and I were excited to get to the village, so after about 20 minutes of conversation, we piled onto another bus that would take us an hour away to another town. Along the way Sujen and I discussed different words in different languages that we know, like how they compared in sound and meaning. He loves learning new things about other cultures. At the town we would get off (stares increasing, no head would not turn in my direction) and take a mini-bus (like an auto rickshaw for about a dozen people) another half hour. From there we would take a cycle rickshaw. And then another cycle rickshaw, making a stop or two along the say so Sujen could introduce me to a family member or two. The dirt path weaved along a creek, palm trees all around, punctuated by bamboo, supari nut trees, and other fruit trees. The forest never got extremely dense but remained refreshingly spacious yet completely green with vegetation all around. Every once in a while a rice paddy would open up to our side and extend just about as far as you could see. We’d also pass small neighborhoods and a few small roadside shops. Eventually we made it to a temple where Sukhen and his parents were in the process of holding a ritual to honor Sukhen’s grandmother, who had passed away exactly a year ago. Although about a dozen were participating in the ritual (mostly repeating chants, burning candles and incense, and tossing flower pedals and flicks of water this way and that) there were about a hundred in the general area for the function. Sujan introduced me to an English teacher and several of his family members. I explored over to a large pond off the side, then struck up a conversation—of course solely in Bangla—with a guy my age who took me to his house. The houses in the village neighborhoods have hardened clay floors (raised above the ground 1-3 feet to mitigate flood damage), usually have roofs and walls made of rippled tin panels, and usually consist of 3-5 rooms. The kitchen is my favorite. The ‘stove’ is made out of hardened clay like the floor, but molded into a hole with three prongs poking up the rim of the hole. A fire is burned in the hole while a pot sits above. The roof in the kitchen is straw which somehow is waterproof yet lets out the smoke from the fire. From the outside, it looks like these straw roofs are on fire when food is being cooked inside, as smoke arises from it just as thickly as it is produced by the stick/coconut shell fire underneath. There is usually electricity present in the household in the form of a few light bulbs or maybe a fan. Sometimes there was also a television. <br /><br />Back at the main area, after the ritual was completed, it was time to eat. Suddenly there were like quadruple the initial number of people and long mats were laid down on the ground for sitting. Sujan had tried to arrange a place for me to sit at a table, but I declined up and down. Plates were brought around to what must have been the 500 guests. I got a ceramic one, others got plastic. When the food started coming around and Sujen was altering my portions based on what he thought I could and couldn’t handle, it was time to explain a few things. No, I do not *need* to sit at a table. Yes, I have eaten on the ground before. Yes, I would like the same portions as others. Yes, I have had that before. Yes, I do like spicy food. These kinds of things. I put it frankly, he needed to stop treating me like a child. Although it was only out of concern for my comfort, it made me feel handicapped and immature. I think that by the end of the trip Sujen would realize that I didn’t need him to play host the way he may have though necessary with foreigners. <br /><br />Anyway, with that settled for now, the food came around. First, we were given rice and fried eggplant, then a delicious apple fruit salad, followed by dal and a vegetable curry, then a spinach dish, then another type of dal and vegetable, then finally sour curd and chunks of sugarcane sugar. Quite possibly one of the most satisfying and wholesome meals I’ve ever had. Not only was I with hundreds of others, but we were all eating on the floor of a forest with his breathtaking scenery all around. And the food, the food. The rice in the village was different, so fresh, so hearty; it had a smell about it that reminded me of sourdough bread. The spinach dish we had quickly became written on my list of all-time favorite foods; it was a type of spinach I hadn’t had before, it was thick, not stringy get not homogenous, not deep green but a lighter avocado color, and its taste was mellow and full-bodied, as well as filling, so much substance there. <br /><br />That evening Sujen, his cousin, and I ventured to the village bazaar for snacks and food the house needed. The attention directed at me was extreme. I could feel the crowd accumulate behind me and follow as I stepped down the street. If I were stopped with a question, usually I would also stop and have a quick conversation. Within 10 seconds, the humanity around me assembled all around. Sujen would start recommending that I break away after he noticed the crowd becoming too thick. Sujen’s face was bright with excitement and amusement; despite having been here so much, he had never witnessed such a stir. When we stopped in a shop to sit and meet one of Sujen’s relatives, the whole of the visible street was filled with people staring. Although I had a few conversations with some, people largely wouldn’t talk to me even if I asked them in Bangla if they had questions. I guess they simply wanted to stare. Largely though, once a conversation was struck up between me and someone else, it could continue and continue, as if once they realized that they could talk to me just like they talk to each other; I guess they also realized how cool it felt to actually talk to someone so different and take advantage of the rare opportunity. There was so much curiosity directed at me, I felt it unfair for me not to explain myself to more than just a few. Sujen and I went to this town meeting place and people accumulated all around. I gave an introduction of myself in Bangla. I also sang “Little Boxes” (made of ticky tacky) when someone asked for me to sing. People ask me to sing a lot actually. Although there were hundreds huddled all around, no one had any questions for me. Despite all the attention I’ve received for my foreign nationality in the past in my travels though India and Bangladesh, this experience tops the list of most curiosity directed at me in one place. <br /><br />On the way back we stopped at a few tea/shop stands along the road. We worked at a leisurely pace, as I usually would get wrapped up in some conversation or something. At the shop by Sujen’s house, I poked my head in farther than usual and surveyed all the products inside. Mostly bags of biscuits, laundry detergent, soap, stuff like that. There were also these bottles of blue power which was used as a means to clean teeth. Instead of using a brush and paste with water, all you needed was to rub the powder in your teeth with your finger. If you get the finger really in there and scrub, it felt just about as effective as using a brush. Then afterwards you can rinse and if you rub your teeth more, they squeak loudly as if scrubbing a window clean or something. The squeak was so loud that I couldn’t stop laughing. Then I’d squeak my teeth some more and laugh again. The locals must have thought it strange. I never imagined hearing a sound like that come from teeth.<br /><br />At the house that night over apples and jilebi (syruped funnel cake) Sujen, his family, and I had discussions at his house. I found myself actually being able to talk about things like economic situations in America in Bangla. During this trip, my Bangla speaking ability grew incredibly. For the first time, I felt like I had developed some kind of grasp on the language. This week occurred at just the right time; I had enough classroom Bangla to at least have a toolbox to work with, but now things had become solidified enough for me to be comfortable taking another step forward with class-style Bangla in our final month. That night, on the thin bed under the mosquito net, with the faint forest chirping leaking though the wooden windows, I slept beautifully. <br /><br />The next morning Sujen was beckoning me to get up so that we could eat breakfast and visit some other family members before heading back to Barisal. It was easy to make up my mind that I hadn’t seen enough of the village, and even though it meant that I would miss a day of class, I decided to stay another day. Sujen’s family was staying anyway too. Plus, Bangla class was for learning the language, right? Well, my capacity with the language was soaring now that I was in an all-Bangla environment. I explained though that if I stayed another day, I wanted to help out somehow around the house. Hopefully I would be able to help cook or wash dishes or something. Sujen refused up and down. When we went to the pond that morning to wash up for the day, I spotted Sujen’s cousin, Adi, washing dishes, and scurried over to help. She seemed to be fine with me helping, but Sujen with a surprised tone kept insisting that I step away from the pond. I’d get muddy, I might fall in, Adi can take care of it, I’ll get soot on my hands, etc etc. It’s so hard to know when to ignore the host and when to obey. I wasn’t going to do nothing for this house, yet I didn’t want to put Sujen in a complicated position. For instance, perhaps if the village noticed me working, they would judge Sujen negatively, maybe under the assumption that he was making me work. In either case, Sujen would be acting this same way, namely, wanting me to put the pan down and relax. There is all this assumption of departure from honesty in a guest-host relationship. If Sujen requests that I sit or relax etc, I assume that he’s just trying to get me to relax. That may be the case, but who knows, I mean, it’s also tied into his upholding of a host’s role and the fulfillment of ‘good’ treatment that the village and family would pressure him about. This larger network of motivation extends well beyond simply me. Also, if I say I want to work, Sujen might think that I say this because I feel obligated or want to be nice. In reality, I don’t feel obligated or simply want to be nice, I want to become a closer part of the family and understand more fully their daily required work. How can you understand someone else if you don’t even know what they do? I mean, I’m not going to know Adi by letting her serve me food. At least, I know Adi in a different way by scrubbing the same pots with the same handfuls of straw in the same pond water that she is.<br /><br />So, basically, in order to contribute in any way, I had to outright disobey Sujen. At the same time, I walked away from the pond that day with Sujen giggling behind me and calling me peculiar. I didn’t get the sense that he was insulted, or took offense, or was hurt. Again, who knows. I guess when you have just about no idea what’s going around you, you’re left with what simply feels right. <br /><br />That morning Adi took us to a distant neighborhood to visit some people there. It took about an hour to talk there, though shaded paths, cows grazing on mounds of straw, and long-stretching rice fields. On the way back, I stopped to observe a machine (similar in appearance to that machine that devours tree branches and stuff) which ate harvested rice stalks, dropped the rice kernels underneath, and spat out the straw in a long arching shower. It was perfect, the harvest went in, and the both people food and cow food came out. Everything used. After returning back to our side of the village, Sujen and I walked down the shaded main village road. Every once in a while, a cycle rickshaw or mini-bus (really the only way in and out of the village) would roll past. The sun flickered through overhead branches from palm trees. From time to time a pond or rice field extending hundreds of yards into the distance would emerge off the side of the road. Sujen’s uncle had his own paan garden, with leafy vines growing up thousands of vertical support sticks about 7 feet high. We also chopped open some green coconuts to drink the water and eat the soft flesh inside. A farmer my age, Emon, had joined us after we stopped at a small road-side medicine store to meet another one of Sujen’s family members. We all talked and joked and stuff over our coconuts, and then Emon took me to his home and showed me the fields that his family works in. The fields extended what must have been for miles, a thick green forest marking the field’s edge, only really visible if you tried really hard and squinted. <br /><br />Back at the house we had a lunch of rice, dal, and various vegetable dishes, including this spongy soybean-ball one. That evening I helped out some by rolling naru—a delicious sweet made of coconut and sugarcane sugar—into small balls. I also watched Sujen’s mom make food with those small clay fire holes that I’ve always wanted to see in action. Somewhere in there I think I got some water from the nearby well too. Despite no bottled water and no filters, I never felt sick once. I guess it’s the big city that stews in the sickening bacteria that travelers fear. However, the world isn’t perfect outside of the city either. Many tube wells in Bangladesh are actually contaminated with arsenic from the ground. From what I understand, affected wells are known and marked; the problem now is digging clean wells for areas that need them and getting people to use the clean wells more than the contaminated ones. My German friend, Christoph, is working on this. As a psychology student, his work is trying to determine the reasons why people continue to use arsenic-laden well water if they know the location of clean water. Reasons include distance and time. I guess even in the villages time is of the essence and there is work to be done. <br /><br />That night Sujan’s family had a puja in their home. The same elder who conducted the grandmother-remembrance ceremony came and did his chanting amongst incense, plates and plates of food offerings, and flower pedals. I was called away from observing the puja to greet about a dozen guests that had come to visit me. We sat in the front room and talked a great deal, again getting into the economic and political situations in the US. I always feel obligated to make whoever I’m talking with aware that not everyone in the US is as wealthy as they assume. Usually people come right out and say these things, how everyone has jobs in the US and is wealthy and how they are poor and would like to go to the US to find work and make money. Usually they also ask me if I can help with this process, getting to America that is. I explain how helpless I am for this, I explain how economic disparity exists in the US, I explain how work is hard to find now. It’s tiring. And most of the time I don’t think they really *hear* my words, although they might be listening. We hear what we want to. If you’ve been shaped so strongly to understand a country in a certain way, any interaction you have with that country is fit into such a framework. You see the same with Americans coming to a South Asia. Whether it’s projecting a heightened spiritual presence onto places and customs, whether poverty disproportionately jumps out at you as you observe road-side activity, whatever, we’re all guilty. We see not only what we’re shaped to see but also what we want to see. It makes you wonder if we are more steeped in subjectivity than we realize.<br /><br />Adi brought us all out sweets from the puja. Our plates were full with naru (coconut/sugarcane), apple slices, halwa (cream of wheat pudding), puri (fried bread), and grapefruit pieces. After some more conversation, becoming even more interesting after they started talking about their own work and families, our guests left and Sujen and I went to another family member’s home to say hello. Outside in the neighborhood’s courtyard there was a weekly Hindu event being held. We sat for a while on the fringes of the few dozen people there and watched the back-and-forth chanting, energetic drumming, and bell chiming, smelling the thick incense all the while. I ran into the guy that showed me his home at the remembrance ceremony my first day. After Sujen and I returned back home, we had dinner. One of my favorite parts of any meal there was smelling the plain rice on my plate even before any vegetables came. So full-bodied, sweet, and hearty. <br /><br />See, now let’s take a minute to pause. Please take my language and writings with a grain of salt and realize its context. It’s easy for me to get wrapped up in the beauty of a place like that, and it’s probably easy for you to be enchanted by it too. There are so many contextual influences though that leak through the language here if you just look for it. Notice how I call the rice ‘hearty’. Yes that’s what it smelled like, but one of the reasons I think to describe it that way is because I associate the village lifestyle with hard work and raw strength. The question is, if I had the same rice at a restaurant in Dhaka, would I really call it the same? Would I just think it tasted and smelled different instead of placing a delicious taste on it? In fact, perhaps I’d think the rice were fermented and old, completely reversing my experience of the rice. The point is that contextual parameters completely influence a personal experience. Before in this blog I may have mentioned how I am understanding things more and more from a relativistic perspective, where we live in a subjective world, communicating and relating to others with language and other methods that aren’t objective but rather inter-subjectivities. A conflict does not arise when I claim how readily contextual/external parameters determine the quality of our subjectivity. The reason for this is that any external context is solely understood through my own aspirations, perspective, and assumptions. The form of environment, the content of a subjective perspective. I mean think about it, what the village means to me is obviously not what it means to those who live there. I want to be there, and some of them want to be in the US for instance. Also, if we even just consider just one person, for example my ideas and opinions about the place would change and evolve dynamically as I stay longer. Really, what is it about the village itself that determined my experience, rather than my projections onto it? What I take away is my response, not the village, although I speak of the village. In reality, this whole story isn’t about the village, it’s about my subjectivity in the village, my experience. I’m not in a place where I acknowledge the new age ideal that suggests we can have control over our perspective and craft our responses to anything that happens around us—independent of what it is—the way we choose. Maybe it doesn’t exist or maybe I’m just not there yet. I mean sometimes I get just plain furious, and by the same token totally enchanted. Whether or not I want these things to happen, they do. Yet I realize—at least conceptually—that such qualities are not of what’s around me, they are of my own subjectivity. Pristine-ness and natural-ness are not born out of a remote village, they are born out of a mind that has been shaped to find them in specific ways.<br /><br />The next morning began with a swim in the nearby pond. I didn’t quite bathe the day before, but now it was time to go for the real deal with the soap and the shampoo and everything. I don’t think I’ve bathed in a pond before. Very refreshing. I swam around a bit. A few people gathered around, but it wasn’t a big deal, I had my underwear on. We were planning on leaving in a few hours, so we went back to the house and packed up our things. When I saw Adi walk out the back with pots and pans I snuck away from Sujen to go help wash too. Sujen called out to me a few seconds after I left as I was still catching up to Adi. I mostly didn’t answer but mumbled something to the effect of “oh, just going over there.” I didn’t feel like having the conversation about how I should relax as a guest rather than help out. He followed me to the pond but didn’t retaliate, mostly just standing and smiling. I guess he came to terms with my “peculiarity”. <br /><br />That afternoon for lunch we had the staple rice, vegetables, dal, etc., but most importantly, my favorite spinach. They knew I liked it. Sujen, his parents, a housemaid, Sujen’s brother, and I gathered our things and said goodbye to the family members that live there. On our way to catch a mini-bus I picked up a bottle of that blue tooth powder, my only souvenir. We piled into the mini-bus, squeezing in on tiny benches with our backs facing the outside; about a dozen of us filled the space. The roof was low enough that I had to duck even when sitting. I glanced over to Sujen’s mom as we started moving. I could see tears emerging from her eyes; I’m not entirely sure why. Sujen’s father also seemed to be in a thoughtful mood. Perhaps they were sorry to say goodbye to their family in the village. I guess we got to work though. And their job is in Barisal.<br /><br />Job. Money. I guess that’s the system we play into. And I guess it’s easier for me to make a value judgment against it from my position of privilege. If I had no money, perhaps I wouldn’t criticize the search for money I see so much here. Perhaps I wouldn’t be on some sort of search for something more than that, for something that somehow contributes to my quality of life or is revelatory somehow. It’s easy to say that I came to Bangladesh to teach English, or to learn Bangla. But really these answers are to different questions, namely, *how* I have come and *what* I am doing here. I’ve been able to come here through the opportunity to do these things provided through the scholarship. *Why* I am here is a tad more complicated, and it’s something I continue to ask myself, and continue to gain greater insight about as I think about it. Hmm. Money. I know that’s not the reason. Although, it is the means by which I am here. Hmm.<br /><br />So, we returned to Barisal by launch. It took a good deal of time, but it was worth it because of the great scenery, and I also had a great conversation with this fruit seller my age, thanks to Sujen’s translating capabilities when needed. Sujen and I also of course talked a bit. When we were back in Barisal I went to visit Emon’s family; they had been calling quite a bit while I was in the village. So much in fact that I had to silence my phone. Did I mention about monopolization of time? Energetic family. I hope they aren’t insulted if I don’t answer their calls. But it’s too much to deal with, and I can’t understand Bangla well over the phone, and it’s disturbing for my experience to have so many interruptions. I knew it would be that way too when I returned to Dhaka, being involved in other things like work and reading and writing this blog for instance, without the time for a conversation at random times during the day.<br /><br />I had been planning on leaving Barisal that evening, so Sujen and I went over to their house to say goodbye. Emon’s aunt was critical of me that I had spent so much time in Sujen’s village. She thought it was unfair; but I was sick of such a competition for my time. Emon’s criticism would also eventually be directed at Sujen, perhaps out of jealousy. I hid my anger, which boiled especially when she asked me to compare my experiences and compare whether or not *their* food was as good as *hers* was. Over and over Emon’s aunt’s told me how they felt so bad. So sad. That I was leaving. Evidently we couldn’t enjoy the time we actually have together, we have to lament my departure, which hasn’t even happened yet. Shukhen (Sujan’s brother) was already at the ghat (dock); we were going to take the launch back to Dhaka together; he is a student at a school near Dhaka. Despite our predictions about when the launch boats would leave, Sujen said that Shukhen called and claimed that they had already left for Dhaka; the extra people during the Eid holiday meant that the launches filled up too fast, so they left when they were full. I wasn’t going to deal with trying to get a bus, it was already late. Emon’s family cheered and cheered that I was going to stay another day. Emon’s aunts and Emon’s mother prepared a massive meal. I had only asked for spinach, so naturally they prepared pulao rice, spinach, dal, vegetable, cow brain curry, egg curry, and an olive relish. I ate a massive amount; just like before, the food kept on coming and coming. And then it was time to dance. Was I overwhelmed? No, not really. I knew all this would go on, and you grow used to it, all the stimulation. Plus the music was some of my favorites, and I have grown really fond of Emon’s younger cousins. I like our simple conversations, and carefree dancing. <br /><br />Another one of Emon’s relatives came, very interested in me, wide eyed. The conversations went normally, but then I was bored enough and curious enough to ask a new question. Why did he think *I* was here? Especially if he speaks of America so fondly, why had I left? His response crushed me. He shrugged his shoulders, but said very frankly “For money.” I tried to explain myself. I don’t think he was taking in what I was saying. Practically in the middle of one of my sentences, he asked if I knew Bangladeshis in America, or something totally off topic like that. Feeling defeated, I just stopped. I mean why even try. Despite the frustration that must have leaked out through my voice, either he didn’t pick up on it or he didn’t care, because he remained happy to be in my presence and said goodbye with the same wide eyes and smile that he came in with. It was as if there was nothing I could do which would alter these people’s perceptions of me, that would alter their understanding of who I was or what America is like. <br /><br />Money. Materialism is a current in South Asia that is developing a mighty force. The uni-dimensional make more money make more money live more comfortably live more comfortably initiative leaks out of so many people, especially in Dhaka. Cars cars cars. “My car. Now I can go where I want. Nice car, expensive car. Better than my neighbor’s. Let’s buy another car. My car. Ugh the traffic in this city is terrible. At least I have my car. UGH traffic in this city SUCKS.” Yes, materialistic businessman, the traffic in Dhaka is regrettable. Now businessman, answer me, why do you think this is? And as such the side effects of materialism go. Yet, the appeal is so high, this lifestyle, and aspiration of such a lifestyle, is not going anywhere. I wish that Bangladesh could embrace a more unique way of development. Hey, actually, Barisal is a good example, those electric rickshaws are awesome, and there are so many less cars there than in Dhaka. I hesitate to make overarching claims, but aspirations of individuality and consumption and economic gain have shaped Bangladesh through its relationship to the West. Such ideas are not inherent to a developing country, such Ideas are exported to a country through an economic order dominated by massive corporations and countries already in power. The boom of business in South Asia only really started after India opened up its trading policy in the 90s. At that time, business in South Asia realized the market it could participate in. Ever since then, it’s been about striving for more, more money, more possessions, more comfort than the others around me. Too bad we’re not on the same playing field. Western-centered corporations that dominate the global economic order purposefully keep countries like Bangladesh in positions of economic and political deprivation. Talk about a frustrated position to be in. And yet, despite the traffic in Dhaka and the mental pressure of competition, despite the garment worker’s unfair work environment and the perpetuation of a lower class to feed the privileged class (namely, the continuation of poverty itself), the motivation of economic gain and materialism continue, having us convinced that through this we can be happy. And evidently that Americans are better people simply because they have work and money. (Need I mention here depression and obesity rates in the US). And finally, if only, if only, I could have more, then…THEN I could be in a better place. But this narrative never ends, just like first grade’s silly circle stories that leave you at the end back at the beginning. And with this fueled cycle, we have the order being controlled by those few at the top, and everyone else vying for a leg up underneath them. The point is happiness, the problem is impossibility. There is always more to be had. And there is no way for everyone to get enough. Because as soon as I get more, you get less. <br /><br />The front page of Dhaka’s Daily Star newspaper on November 27 is half cover stories and half one big massive advertisement. It shows a clean-shaven man reaching for a suit on a hanger in a closet. The caption reads: “Everything depends on my mood, or maybe my mood depends on everything.” Bold face included. Here, the media is being used to convince us explicitly that our happiness is a direct function of what I own, and that any agency we have over our own subjective experience solely depends on whether or not I have the means to buy what I want. The company’s title is underneath, and next to it reads “feel special.” Feeling special sounds like such a good idea until you realize that specialness cannot exist without the disadvantaged. The rich only exist because the poor do to. And if the rich have the power, which our economic order operates by, how would it ever be in their interest to alleviate poverty? Equality is threatening. Funny how we champion that ideal in the US, as well as equal opportunity. So, how do we keep the machine alive? With the simple notion that we can ‘feel special’ if we could just….if we could just. The grass is always greener on the other side.<br /><br />The next day we ate, I went to a shop to get a shave, Emon, another friend, and I enjoyed the scenery from their apartment building’s roof, things like that. Eventually seemingly out of nowhere Emon beckoned me to come with him. Only after extensive prying did I eventually find out that we were going to visit a mosque outside the city. It was as if it didn’t matter where we were going, because we were just going to enjoy and have a good time. We took a rickshaw to the bus stand. Along the side of the road we stood, buses coming, buses going. Emon, what are we waiting for? Doesn’t matter. I can’t be concerned with the plan, all I’m to do is to relax and enjoy. Although I’d rather know what’s going on. No worries, I’ll go talk to those people looking at me at that nearby chai stand. And then visit the street magic act encircled by a crowd of onlookers. Suddenly Emon’s entire family shows up. Ok, guess we’ll all go to this place! Emon, I need to be back in an hour and a half, I need to be sure I get the launch back to Dhaka this evening. Sure, no problem. Ok this is the bus, round up the whole dozen of us and pile in! Matt! Here you sit up at the front. (That was really cool actually, my face was literally at the windshield) Matt! There’s a village over there! Ok. Matt! Are you having a good time?! Yes. How much of a good time?! …. <br /><br />The bus ride took quite a while but drove through some nice places. Finally we arrived at this massive mosque with a towering minaret. Grassy flowery gardens all around, and a large pond. “This is really nice, Emon, thanks, but I need to go back to Barisal now, sorry we’ve only been able to stay here for about 10 minutes.” *We have lots of time* “No, sorry, I need to head back” *The launch leave 9 o’clock* “Nope, we thought that yesterday and then heard they all left by 7:30” *No problem, we will arrange* “Emon, what does that mean? I need to be sure I get to the launch, I can’t take the risk of losing another day of classes” *No problem, we just go this way, lots of time* “Emon, I will go back by myself if you don’t want to, and I’ll leave in 10 minutes, if you’d like to go too, we need to get the family together” I had a similar, but more prolonged argument with Emon’s aunts. It was indeed pretty silly for us to only be there for 15 minutes after the 45 minute bus ride, but we should have realized this when I said I needed to be back at a certain time for a launch. I guess plans matter differently between us?<br /><br />Despite the family’s pleas, I didn’t budge from my decision to return, plus I imagined that there was a possibility of them thinking if I missed the launch again, I’d stay another day and it would be another party. Nope, not happening. The whirling night air on the bus was chilly, I would have worn a sweater if I had one. Got back home later than I thought; packed up my things; said some quick goodbyes. No, Emon’s aunt’s, I don’t have time to hear about how bad and sad you feel that I’m leaving. Thanks for everything, especially the delicious meals, see you again when I return. Emon was still on his way back in a rickshaw, but I didn’t know where he was nor did I want to risk missing the launch, so I figured I’d give him a call later, although my phone at that time was dead. <br /><br />I high-tailed it over to Sujen’s home and said a quick goodbye there, along with a farewell to my cricket-player friends hanging out in the courtyard of the Hindu temple next to Sujen’s house. Emon’s uncle drove me on his motorcycle to the launch ghat and came with me on the launch, trying to talk the launch attendants into giving me a cabin or a couch to lie down on. I explained over and over it was fine for me to sleep on the deck, and I appreciated the low cost of it too. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders about the matter, we had a quick cup of tea together, he gave me a handshake goodbye, and then he was off. I sat down in a chair by the railing and watched the water outside. This launch was bigger than the one I came on. It must have been the biggest boat I’ve ever been on, with about 5 stories and maybe 50 to 100 cabins per floor. The night was cool, and I knew I was going to get colder especially after finding a place to lie down (fortunately more of a possibility this time than when I came, there was actually space on the deck…whoever thought I’d be so thankful to have some cold steel to lay down on?). I slipped on my other pair of pants over the one I was wearing, and put on the other 3 shirts I had in my backpack too, just about the only thing in the backpack now was a book and some toothpaste. I pulled out the book and started reading, somewhat distracted by the numerous memories rapidly jumping around in my mind. I couldn’t even think of the week chronologically; families, friends, places, the village, they all would surface randomly. It was weird to be alone after such prolonged commotion and attention. A deep feeling of warm comfortableness settled in my chest when I thought about Barisal and what went on the past week. The friendliness, the curiosity, the tastiness, the struggles, the smiles, the independence, the refreshment. My sentiment quickly started adopting a flavor of nostalgia. Not only was the content of the week a bewildering experience, but the form was so new; it was the first time I had traveled without an idea of where I’d go and what I’d do. It was about getting to know a place and its people by intuition rather than through the pages of a guide book. <br /><br />I felt someone looking at the pages of my book over my shoulder. It was Emon and one of our good friends, Monu. They were out of breath, having scurried around the launch looking for me amongst all these people. I couldn’t wipe the astonishment off my face; we exchanged hugs and goodbyes and our strong wills to meet again someday in the future. And just like that they were gone again, making toward the exit so they wouldn’t be stuck on a boat to Dhaka; the launch’s sirens were sounding, signaling that it was leaving soon. <br /><br />After we were in open water and I had read a few pages, I broke out my blue village tooth powder and started scrubbing away. I couldn’t tell exactly what the Bangladeshi guy sitting in a chair looking at me was thinking. I entertained myself by audibly squeaking my teeth with my finger, giggling. …Jeez…what a strange foreigner that guy is.<br /><br />I wasn’t quite sleepy yet, so I explored around the launch. On the first and second floors instead of cabins they have just a massive open hall that spans the space of the whole launch floor. Thousands of people huddled together chatting, playing cards, or lying down. Eventually I found myself in the steerage of the launch admiring the massive engine room, the diesel-powered engines making such a loud rumble that you wouldn’t be able to hear even someone next to you yelling in your ear. At the very back of the boat was a restaurant. I watched the water churn and foam out the tail of the boat from the deck only a foot or so above the water’s surface. The restaurant owner had leftover food, it was late. Free rice, dal, vegetable, and my favorite fish, whose bones you can eat because they are so soft. A student my age struck up a conversation with me, we made our way to the top of the launch to explore more. Climbing up a latter, we found ourselves on top of the roof, a flat steel surface as massive as a football field. Only a few people were sleeping up there, it was pretty cold so exposed to the wind. Several others joined us and we sat in a circle and chatted for a good while. And sang too. Eventually we relocated on the deck downstairs and kindof feel asleep, yet not for long because we coasted into Dhaka’s ghat at 4:30 am. Eventually I found a bus that was heading up to the US embassy, from where I could walk home. Must have been the earliest bus, and it was still dark even. The streets were mostly bare from other cars, and we made it all the way up north to Baridhara in less than half an hour, a ride which took 4 hours the week before. My apartment felt foreign to me. The week must have been so incredibly different of an environment for me that it undermined my familiarity with the way life was before Eid break. I knew that exciting alien feeling wouldn’t last. The elation from the past week would settle; I would fall back into the routine. Life would simplify itself down to a pace that churned methodically, predicting more easily what would follow in the next moment and the one after that.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-32653859601477654372010-10-29T11:25:00.001+05:302010-10-29T11:29:44.031+05:30First Month in BangladeshAfter Bangalore I headed back to Hyderabad for another week. Much of it played out as before in Hyderabad, and it never got old. Visiting with old friends, eating at favorite venues, meeting new people…loving on Hyderabad in general. After my last train ride in India—lasting 26 hours—I was in Calcutta. I took a bus to another part of town where I had stayed last year while volunteering through an NGO called CRAWL. Isn’t it a funny feeling sensing where you are or things around you, but not knowing where you are? The bus dropped me off in Sealdah, and I had simply a sense of where to go, although no explicit explanation for it. Perhaps this is the subconscious saying “I used to walk these streets, and so I’ll let you feel something about it, but since you are not actually conscious of me, I can’t actually tell you about it.” This has happened a good deal when revisiting these old places. When it happens, it’s one of the most refreshing and triumphant feelings. Literally you can have no recollection of where you are, and then think, there is a sweet shop around this corner, and then there it is. At any rate, as I recalled more and more, eventually I knew exactly where I was. Soon I was passing shops and people that I used to visit pretty frequently. As I stepped into my old guest house unannounced, all my old staff friends where right in their places, just as I remembered. We all recognized each other immediately and sounded excited shouts. <br /><br />The visit was short-lived, as the next afternoon was my flight to Dhaka. In the morning I visited a sweet shop (the owner of which was born in Dhaka, but relocated to Calcutta during the independence movement because of difficulties he encountered being Hindu), a sweet lime fruit juice stall, a lassi sweet yogurt drink stand, and random streets jam-packed with anything from sound system speakers to colorful bed sheets to flashy apparel to keys and locks to hanging racks of lamb with accompanying gutted entrails in a pile underneath. I also went to the same spot at the train station where the NGO and I used to visit, distributing food and hygiene supplies to the homeless as well as coloring with kids. As I was about to leave, some homeless guy started trying to say something to me. From his smiley face and energetic demeanor, I figured he was mostly messing with me. Soon enough, a woman I recognized emerged with her child, as well as several others. The woman I immediately recognized and in my broken Hindi and Bangla I greeted her and gave her an update on what I was up to. She was happy to see me, but mostly she would be yelling at her friend who was trying to get me to say illicit words in Bangla. Always a laugh when a foreigner unknowingly curses. Fun crowd, and at least it wasn’t more of the same old begging.<br /><br />The flight to Dhaka went smoothly (as short as I expected, maybe half an hour in total—but interestingly about 16 hours by bus due to so many rivers). I was the only foreigner on the plane; but here’s how you could tell the mentality on the plane was also predominantly South Asian: As soon as we landed, people started unbuckling despite the stewardess’ requests, and as soon as we stopped taxiing….WHOOSH as if rehearsed, the entire cabin arose and started pushing to get their bags. I have no problem letting go of personal space, but vying for train/bus seats, wanting to be the first to get off, and never honoring queues (sometimes despite the shouts of policemen) easily piss me off. Perhaps I project self-centeredness onto the individuals acting this way and place a strong negative value judgment on that. In reality it’s probably more like…everyone does this and it’s part of the culture, so I’m a part of it too. <br /><br />‘Chalking’ things up to cultural difference is always a tough one. The culture is different, things operate differently in a new culture, and so in some way you need to let certain things go that you would rather change, lest you try to confront an entire engrained system in the minds of these people. At the same time, is someone groping me (in most cases only if were female) or overcharging me 10x the usual price ‘part of the culture’ so I shouldn’t worry about it? Obviously not. What if an auto driver is circling around and around, trying to run over a barking dog. Is that part of the culture? If so does that mean I shouldn’t do anything about it? Does my possession of the care for the dog mean that I should do something? Does the fact that I can’t change ALL the irritated auto driver’s distaste for barking dogs mean that it doesn’t matter even if I try now? Where do we draw the line? When do we stop caring about something and disengage our passion for it simply on the ground that we are unfamiliar with the context, when we are in a new culture? When do we apply our values? When do we say, this is not my taste? When do we say, this doesn’t look appealing, but I’ll try it anyway because I don’t even know whether or not I like it? When am I being mistreated? When am I not being tolerant enough? <br /><br />How about another example. Teachers that have been brought up in South Asia and then participate in a teacher exchange program to the US are baffled at how the students treat the classroom space. Falling asleep, slouching, having feet on the desk, tipping the chair while sitting, leaving the classroom, wearing baggy or informal clothing, calling the teacher by the first name…maybe even not standing when the teacher enters the room…are all different ways of conduct that you might see. Whenever I ask these exchange teachers what their impressions were of this, they claim that they were utterly astonished that the teacher tolerated it, to the point that they were speechless. So they were shocked. And yet, they explain that they simply saw it as a cultural difference. Now come, come. Is that really the case? Did you really walk into the classroom, have your jaw drop, and not think that these students are undisciplined? So which part is lack of discipline and which part is cultural difference? If I claim something to be a cultural difference, an implicit naturalization of the behavior emerges. It is natural to the culture. Therefore, we can’t apply the same judgment values that we grow accustomed to in our own method of going about things. We don’t stand when a teacher enters, maybe that’s a cultural difference (I don’t think I’m lazy when I don’t stand because no one else does). Acting out in class or something (come up with your own story) is an entirely different situation. Do I say then that it’s just a cultural difference? No, whether or not it’s cultural difference it’s a demonstration of lack of discipline. These incredibly difficult questions allude to so many of the difficulties of traveling, and undoubtedly will arise in explicit ways as I begin teaching in an unfamiliar classroom setting. <br /><br />Back to the plane. I knew we weren’t getting off for some time, even though the plane stopped moving. So I sat. One of the only ones. Indeed, we didn’t disembark for another 15 minutes. A minute after we had stopped though, a man a row or two back had leaned up to right beside me, as if trying to push ahead. Right or wrong, I had the feeling that I should be off the plane before him because he was sitting behind me. I started to get annoyed. He pushed further, leaning into me harder as he tried to get forward. In South Asia we joke about how there’s no personal space, right? Just got to get used to it because as Americans we put personal space way to high on our priority lists, right? He reached his arm to support himself on the headrest of the seat in front of me. His elbow was in front of my nose. It’s just a different culture right? Right…but yeah, not happening. Fuming, I gathered my bag and pushed my way up to stand, forcefully pushing him behind me as I rose. I don’t really remember how he reacted, and didn’t look at him anyway. Overreaction? Justified? Who knows. The intricacies of dealing with a new culture take a lifetime to know. But in a moment, what mattered most was being sufficiently violated. That level of sufficiency changes as we grow accustomed to new things. Its dynamic nature to me means that there seems to be no inherent sufficiency to the threshold of any behavior. It’s a relative phenomenon, just as a value judgment that prompts a behavior is subjective in nature, and hence relative to any given individual. Similarly, how do we think about right and wrong? Are these relative? Which right and wrongs are absolute? What about human rights? Are they universal? <br /><br />Although I had no happy sign reading my name waiting for me as I exited the main airport area, after some time I located the VIP parking lot and found the embassy driver waiting to take me to my residence. The nicer areas of Dhaka include Gulshan, Banani, and Baridhara, and they are closer to the airport (in the north) than the rest of the city. My flat is a 3 person apartment in a multistory building in Baridhara, an enclave that, having police at every access point and hosting most of the international embassies, is arguably the safest area in the whole city. Several of the building’s flats are owned by BLI, the Bangla Language Institute, which operates through IUB, Independent University of Bangladesh. 7 Fulbrighters are living in 3 apartment suites, our classrooms are located in another flat in the same building, so the commute is all of less than 2 seconds. Entering my suite was a jaw-dropping experience: spacious living area, 3 separate rooms each w/ private bathroom, every room w/ a/c and fans, television, computer, dvd player, tables, windows with great views, kitchen, and even a small room just outside the kitchen for the ‘servant’. Such a term doesn’t carry the heavy connotations here that I’m used to back home. Cooks, maids, drivers…they are everywhere, especially in a place like this. We have a cook, his name is Suranjan, he also cleans. He makes food and buys groceries during the day, then leaves to go home in the evening. Suranjan is…a wonder. Indescribable food, simply knee-buckling. So far we’ve had rice, kichri, okra, mixed veg bhaji, eggplant, chicken curry, veg curry cucumber/tomato/onion salad, chapatti, spinach…I must be forgetting something but anyway, words don’t do it justice. I NEED to know how he does this; unfortunately I’m usually busy when he’s preparing lunch, and since he goes home in the evening, dinner is reheated leftovers. He is paid by the program (everything I’ve mentioned, including the apartment, free internet, and laundry service, is $1,000 USD for the duration of the 3 month program), but the food items he uses we pay for. I’ve spent so much of the blog talking about food; the task of describing Suranjan’s cooking is too tall an order, I don’t have the energy anymore. Just come. He’s my cook for 3 months, come visit and you’ll see. <br /><br />The evening I arrived it was already pretty late, so I ate dinner with our housekeeper at a nearby pizzeria/deli. I met up with Olinda, living two floors up, the next morning at breakfast. Olinda Hassan is another ETA Fulbrighter (all of us are the same age) and was actually born in Dhaka. After living in Bangladesh for 4 years, she and her family moved to Japan for 5 years. She spent the rest of her time in the US and now lives in Arizona, but has graduated from Wellesley College in Massachusetts. Olinda’s fluency in Bangla, as well as acquaintance with Bangla culture, constantly prove to be an asset for us other non-Bangla-speaking ETAs. After breakfast our first day, Olinda and I set out with Suranjan (cook) to the marketplace to buy vegetables for lunch. The marketplace is not a frequent stop for foreigners, who rarely would be preparing their own food. Suranjan would be scurrying about the stalls for the best prices (more hectic than usual for him, as with foreigners, all the vendors were skyrocketing their prices), and Olinda and I would try to stand to the side and watch it take place, observing which places he was going to and how he judged a good product. I was totally unknowing of the heap of conversations happening all around us by the locals, but from time to time Olinda would whisper to me, “they’re making fun of us.” Or, “all those people over there keep talking about us.” Or, “they’re wondering why I’m with you, they probably think I’m a slut.” Most of the time she’d laugh it off, but she told me stories (and it must have happened more than once) where Bangladeshis would be talking about her, assuming she was totally Western without an ear for Bangla, in a demeaning way. If prompted sufficiently, she would read them a riot act in her fluency, completely shocking them. It was difficult for her to specifically translate what they were saying about us, but at times it was things she was insulted about. At the same time, we were a fascinating sight to see and she assured me we weren’t unwelcome. Olinda’s Bangladeshi-American identity puts her in an interesting position. Fluency in both English and Bangla is obviously an assent. At the same time, in one day she was approached in a condescending way by a Westerner for translation help, as well as regaled by a rickshaw driver for not paying more. Her assumed Bangladeshi identity meant that a foreigner could approach her in a way as if to say “you should be thankful that me, a westerner, has come to approach you for help.” Her assumed western identity meant that a rickshaw driver could treat her inappropriately just the same, demanding inflated and unjust prices. <br /><br />Laule’a was the next to arrive, deeply relieved to finally see my familiar face after days of tiring travel and an entirely unfamiliar environment. Laule’a, the other female ETA, lives in Portland, Oregon and studied Political Science and International Studies at Kenyon. She’s also worked through an NGO in Ethiopia and studied abroad in Kolkata. She certainly brings a familiar taste of America with her, and is always the one to be found joking, laughing, and talking at the dinner table. <br /><br />The first few days I also spent time with the research Fulbrighters, Christy and John. Christy is older and has traveled extensively, especially through West Africa, as well as taught classes there. She even leads groups of high schoolers through African villages and has worked through USAID in Washington. Later on she hopes to be working with women’s cooperatives and other organizations at the local community level. From rural Iowa, she can’t wait to complete language training in Dhaka and relocate to a village.<br /><br />John, the oldest, is married and has children, he has been in the military for some time and is also a registered nurse. He hopes to do research related to nursing here. During dinner conversations, John will sometimes reference his past in the military and the soldiers that he had been responsible for. Our questions afterward will end up in full-fledged stories of the military system as well as his personal accounts. He’s mentioned once or twice about his experience related to the war in the Middle East; his battalion was one of the first to be mobilized after 9/11. <br /><br />The night before the ETAs were to meet with the embassy for the first time, our fourth member, Keith, had not yet arrived. Keith lives in San Antonio and graduated in International Politics from Pepperdine in LA. He’s traveled extensively and always seems to have stories to share, as well as a great deal of international perspective. He has also been awarded a Pickering Fellowship which will fund his graduate studies after Fulbright at Columbia University in International Affairs with concentrations in Human Rights and South Asia. The fellowship also places him for 3 years in Foreign Service with the US Department of State after his master’s. To my surprise, Olinda told me that she had heard he was driving here from India by auto rickshaw. I wondered how he’d be able to navigate the roads of South Asia, let alone find our apartment amongst the thick city. At about 1 am, right before I was going to head to bed, I heard Keith’s voice in the common room and excitedly ran out to greet him and hear of his adventure. He had purchased an auto (I think it was about 800 Euros) in Chennai and drove it all the way to Kolkata, almost 2,000 km away. This is the same distance as between India’s furthest westernmost and easternmost points. The journey took him 10 days, and involved so many tales. First he spent a day or so learning how to drive and switch gears. He said that with a little practice, the motions become second-nature. At some point it must become automatic, as the concentration of any auto driver must mostly be on avoiding the potholes, people, and other vehicles. He said potholes were a huge problem, especially in the state of Orissa; he even referred to the road as having a ‘mars-like’ terrain. One time his front wheel axle even broke, but fortunately he was able to pull off to a roadside repair shop and get it fixed for less than 5 dollars. In the evenings he would find a village to stop at and spend the night. Without fail locals would be ecstatic to take him in for the evening, showering him with village tours, meals, and even meetings with the village leader. Locals would be shocked to see a westerner driving an auto; such a job is only held by low-class Indians. He would sometimes pick up wandering locals alongside the road, offering to drive them to their destination if it was in his direction for no fee. One couple he even drove 80 km. What a surprise it must have been for them to be spared such a journey by foot for no fee, and by a foreigner nonetheless. Even though Keith only had a squeeze-horn on the side of the auto (one that you might find on a trike), he was able to alert massive trucks—and have them move out of the way—as he sped past (needing to cover 200 km a day, there was no time to wait around). He referred to driving the auto as a ‘zen’ experience because you become so hyper-aware of your surroundings. The motions of gear-changing and response to the changing environment around you become fluid, and your awareness of changing stimuli rests atop a flood of subconscious and schematic motions responding to everything. Talk about concentration. After 10 eventful days, he drove into Kolkata to stay overnight with a friend. The next day at the border to Bangladesh—disappointingly—his prized vehicle was denied access into Bangladesh because he didn’t have the proper paperwork (despite the embassy’s advice that it wouldn’t be a problem). He hired a driver to take it back to Cal where it will wait until he can file the papers and retrieve it; so he hopes it will be in Dhaka in about 2 months. After a long bus ride from the border into Dhaka, he took a CNG auto from the bus stand to our flat with only the address to refer to, and bam, made it just in time for our appointment the next morning.<br /><br />The next 3 days we would travel with the Embassy’s Public Affairs Officer, Shaheen Khan, to the schools we’d be teaching at. All schools are high schools, and whether private or public, are extremely competitive and rated amongst the best in the country. Sometimes parents will apply for their kid’s admissions against competitive odds of at least 50 people applying for one spot. Olinda will be teaching at a coed school in the north of the city, Laule’a at an all-girls school in the thick of the city, and both Keith and I will be at an all-boys school called St. Joseph’s in a similar location. During the school visits, we met with the administrative boards and the English departments, having discussions over snacks and tea; we would also visit classrooms to see the student arrangement and to get a taste of how classes were taught. With many ceiling fans, concrete walls, and many (although silent) students, it would usually be really hard to hear the teacher. I’m not sure how the students did it. I’ll have to remember to keep my voice up. There was a microphone through in the classrooms at Laule’a’s school. Class sizes averaged 40 to 50 students. They would be extremely excited to meet us, bottling in their energy while we were there and then letting it all out in excited chatter right as we would have exited the room. The eyes of entire classrooms would divert and peer through the windows as we’d walk past. Laule’a’s school even offered each of us bouquets of freshly picked flowers. After introducing ourselves to a class, we’d always ask if there were any questions they’d have for us. In the class at St. Joseph’s that we visited, a boy in the back excitedly raised his hand. Astonished at such a quick response, I asked him to offer his question. Standing up (as students always do when asking a question or offering an answer), and looking at me he asked, “Do you play basketball??” We all started laughing. It seemed to be a question that was on more minds than just his. My height was baffling to them. Lots of questions came up about sports; about which ones we played, about which teams we liked…even if we watched wrestling. One student remembered that I had said my major in school was Music, and he asked me to sing a song. Without anything else coming immediately to mind, and knowing that I wouldn’t easily be able to come up with anything memorized that was more contemporary, I went with one of the first that came up as I thought back to college choir…. “Oh come, all ye faithful. Joyful and triumphant, O come, ye, o co-me ye to Be-eh-thle-hem.” They seemed to like it. I mean the school is called St. Joseph’s, founded by a Catholic brotherhood called Holy Cross. We are the first Fulbrighters to teach at these schools, but the program seems well organized, and we’ve even been appointed Bangladeshi English teachers—who had previously been awarded Fulbright grants to teach English in the US—to aid us in our transition to the Bangladeshi classroom, as well as offer advice. <br /><br />The next day we had an orientation at the American Club (a club for people involved in the embassy, consisting of a gym, pool, tennis courts, and restaurant) for the ETAs. A Fulbright English Language Fellow (having received a grant to teach at BRAC University) who had just arrived in the country had prepared a captivating presentation on his past teaching experience in China and Vietnam, as well as teaching English as a foreign language in general. The day after that, we had an orientation with the rest of the Fulbright crew (about 6 researchers) where we had general introductions to everyone associated with the Bangladesh Fulbright program as well as presentations on Bangladesh’s political history, security awareness, the services of the embassy, and living in Bangladesh. Research projects of the other Fulbright members include the construction of the Bengali home, Bengali poetry, local response to environment conservations efforts, garment workers, and women’s cooperatives. <br /><br />The day off from the week here is Friday. Since we had lots of time our first Friday with no orientation meetings, Laule’a and I decided to go exploring through our northern part of the city and find a concert that has happening in a stadium a few kilometers away. Baridhara, where we live, is separated from the other area of Gulshan by a lake, which itself is separated from Banani by another lake. To get into Gulshan, there is a scenic footpath that leads you along the side of the lake all the way to the nearest bridge over it. As Laule’a and I started out, we decided to take this path and enjoy the views of the water, as well as have a break from the cars on the roads. As we were walking, I sensed someone coming up from behind me and for whatever reason, felt that I needed to casually look and see who it was. As he came into view from the side, my attention shifted entirely to him, as I realized he was smiling and looking intently at me. My jaw dropped and eyes widened. It was Jan from Germany; we had gone through the same SIP program to study at the University of Hyderabad 2 years earlier. I was dumbfounded, how had it come to be that a German student and an American student, after having studied abroad in the same program in South India, randomly converge on the street at the same time in Dhaka, Bangladesh 2 years later? We excitedly chatted the whole 45 minute walk into Banani and the three of us had lunch at an acclaimed restaurant that I had been meaning to visit. After returning to Germany at the end of 2008, Jan had traveled through Pakistan for a month through an Urdu class during his next semester as well. After another year of schooling, he decided to take a break and apply for foreign embassy service. With his background in South Asia, he was placed in Dhaka and will be here for 3 months, the same 3 months that I’ll be taking my language classes and living in BLI housing, only 2 doors down from Jan’s rented flat. Running into old faces has been a theme during my past 2 months in India, but I guess you neither need to plan for it nor even be in the same country to have that pleasure come to fruition. <br /><br />After a long walk, Laule’a and I stumbled upon the stadium having the concert. There must have been about 10,000 people there, nearly all male, and nearly all seemingly in the age range of 18-26. The stadium was only about 15 rows of concrete seating high, but circled around an entire field, so that the capacity maxed out at 15,000 I think. There was a stage at one end and a big screen at the other showing shots of the crowd and close-ups of the bands. Massive speakers blasted the music through the stadium. The genre was heavy rock/metal, a favorite amongst the upcoming Bangladeshi generation. Being two of very few foreigners there, Laule’a and I did attract the stare of many eyes, as well as an excited software company customer service employee who intensely wanted to practice his English. Having spent much of the day walking and catching up with Jan, it started to get dark only about an hour after we had arrived at the stadium. That’s ok, it was enough; certainly not as excited about the songs as the cheering Bangladeshis, especially those up by the front of the stage involved in what looked like a small mosh-pit. After leaving the stadium and as we rounded a corner off the main road, a funny familiar feeling caught my attention. The massive waist-high steel lever, guard house, steel doors, and barbed wire atop a high concrete wall looked familiar. Not a jail, but the American Center, the Public Affairs branch of the US Embassy that we had gotten driven to every day this week to pick up Shaheen Khan before heading to our respective schools. See? You never get a solid sense of where you are by being driven around. Satisfied that we had explored enough, and not keen on walking the rest of the way in the dark, we took a rickshaw back to Baridhara. <br /><br />The next day my number one priority was observing our cook, Suranjan, prepare lunch. I had realized by now not only how heavenly the food he cooks is, but also that I would only be free to watch on Saturdays with the daily morning Bangla class schedule. After a breakfast of omelets, honey, toast, bananas, peanut butter, and tea, I accompanied Suranjan to the nearby market to buy lunch’s produce. Baridhara is a high-end residential area, but just a few streets north of us is a steel-plated entryway that separates Baridhara from a more similar Dhaka scene: the hubbub of busy local streets, shops, and an open market. Although I couldn’t make out the Bangla that Suranjan would be exchanging with the street vendors, it was useful to see where he went, what he bought, and to get more of an idea of how much things cost. One of his friends also guided me to a nearby tailor where I was measured for pants and a button down shirt. The $20 dollar price was worth being able to hand-select the fabric you wanted, as well as having the articles custom-made for your size (as premade clothes in South Asia and my lurpy body don’t mix well). I had asked Suranjan to prepare my favorites from the past week: daal, okra, and Bengali vegetable bhaji. He threw in a vegetable salad and fried rice as well. Although exact ingredient measurements succumb to the effectiveness of experience and tasting-as-we-go in home cooking, I wrote what I could collect from Suranjan’s rapid-fire multitasking, somehow preparing everything in under 2 hours. Right now I can only help by cutting a few vegetables, but hopefully soon I will have observed enough to actually contribute more (although Suranjan only gave in to me helping after I demanded several times to lighten his load), or at least have the experience to cook this kind of food later on. <br /><br />A US embassy Cultural Affairs officer, Garrett, had invited all the Fulbright crew and related embassy personnel to his apartment for a reception on Saturday evening. The girls taking the time to dress up in their finest salwar kamizes was not a moment of overdressing; Garrett’s embassy-owned apartment was nothing short of the most luxurious I’ve seen in Bangladesh. Comfortable seating areas, fancy artwork on the walls, an entirely marble kitchen, and a cloth-and-votive candle-dressed table under an arrangement of miniature sandwiches, a hummus platter, brownies, sugar cookies, champagne glasses, wine, and beer were sights that I doubt I’ll come across very often in the next year. However, the stories of our past travel experiences and aspirations for our futures that we all exchanged are substances that I’m sure will grow in number and sentiment as this next year marches on. <br /><br />Classes have been going very well so far. We have four different classes (emphasizing topics like conversation, listening, writing, grammar, and the like) shared between two different teachers. Since our class size is only Keith, me, Laule’a, and Elizabeth (Biz is another Fulbrighter, having just graduated from Tuff’s in Boston), the individual attention prompts participation. All coursework is done at 1 pm for the day, so lunch follows (something I need to make a conscious effort to keep my mind off of during our last class). Our lunches have been lasting well into the afternoon, accompanied by conversation that sometimes lasts for hours. <br /><br />Keith and I have also been hosting some couchsurfers, who always seem to be the most fascinating people to fold into a discussion. Couchsurfing is a facebook-like web network that puts travelers in touch with locals who offer anything from an afternoon to show someone around an area to a place to stay as lodging. Despite the hesitation many might feel in participating in the uncertainty of an internet-based network, Couchsurfing is a tool that I hear about more and more, and only with fantastic outcomes. Keith for instance has stayed with many people during his travels through Europe, and frequently references the conversations he had had with his hosts, especially the Swedish feminist and the French neuro-physicist. Our first couchsurfer, Hiro from Japan, had couchsurfed while traveling by bus all the way from South America to Canada and from the UK to the Middle East. Christoph from Germany is staying with us now; he’s a psychology student who is taking a break from the university to pursue an internship with a Bangladesh-based Swiss NGO that deals with arsenic contamination in Bangladeshi water wells. Bringing such perspectives into the mix of our already entertaining discussions, it’s easy to imagine how lunch conversations seamlessly evolve into dinner conversations, and then easily dovetail with late-night conversations. For such reasons, an aspiration to check email one day may fall on the back-burner until the next, although that’s catalyzed by the power going out. Although our building has a diesel generator that kicks in to power lights and fans during our sporadic hour-or-so-long power outages, at times the internet goes with the power as frequently as every other hour. Occupational hazard I suppose; of course, internet is an entertainment interest that quickly subsides in the wake of so many other activities. In addition to however long our discussions go, we also fill our afternoons with visits to the market, meeting up with friends in cafes, napping, exploring, reading, and working into the mix a bit of Bangla study. And being cooked for. Yes it’s a hard life. <br /><br />For a few weeks my throat hadn’t felt quite right. I figured it was some form of cold, but when swallowing became more difficult, I investigated the situation further. Peering back to my tonsils in the mirror, I was awestruck by alien-looking white matter veining about my red tonsils. Obviously something was wrong, although it didn’t feel too painful. I decided to visit United Hospital, a private hospital located only about a 10 minute walk away. ‘Hospital’ nominally, Resort aesthetically. The massive building with beautiful glass paneling and warm lighting is a sight that sweethearts love to admire as they sit across the lake, enjoying the twilight hours together. The reflection of the hospital on the lake is by far the brightest and most beautiful thing in this area of the city at night. Walking into the hospital was just was majestic, with high ceilings, intricate dangling light fixtures, and marble covered floors and walls. The call to prayer that echoed throughout the halls was incredible too, my favorite that I’ve heard so far; its mysterious drifting vocal lines were so captivating, I found myself standing under a loudspeaker for its duration. When it had ended, I realized I had work to do. First, there was a short registration process (200 bdt, 3 usd), then I went to the front desk to pay for my visit to an ENT (600 bdt, 8.50 usd). No appointment, no problem; I traveled to the 6th floor and waited a few minutes in the waiting room for the doctor to arrive. After being taken into a private room, I described the history of my sore and now strange-looking throat. With one glance at my tonsils, a concerned look fell upon the doctor’s face. “Your throat is TOO MUCH infected. It’s HUGELY infected.” He prescribed antibiotics (300 bdt, 4.25 usd), an antihistamine (practically free), gargling with a hydrogen peroxide solution, a throat swab to culture the bacteria (400 bdt, 5.75 usd) and blood tests (800 bdt, 11.50 usd) to make sure the infection hadn’t spread to the blood stream. I revisited the hospital a few days later (free of charge) to check the tests, which turned out favorably. Additionally, within 6 days the infection was gone. Grand total? $33 USD. At a luxurious hospital, easily accessible, and without more than about an hour of cumulative waiting time. So, are there really people in the US who still think that our healthcare system isn’t broken? When a visit to…umm….BANGLADESH makes you think…*wow, that healthcare experience was much easier and cost effective than I’m used to* …well, point made. <br /><br />One day last week we visited a taco restaurant in Gulshan-1. Keith, from south Texas, found the restaurant to be a hint of home, or at least an allusion to it. The restaurant was in a location with a few eateries that I had visited a year ago, but I hadn’t remembered that until I actually went there. That place had come into my memory a few times since I’ve been here, always wondering if I’d be back there again. Then, unexpectedly, there we were. To Keith and everyone else it was a nice place to eat; for me, it was a walk down memory lane. On our way there, several street kids jumped onto our rickshaws and we chatting away with us. They joined us in the restaurant, and we happily had lunch with them, amongst practicing Bangla and making funny faces. To my surprise, the kid that I was next to kept feeding me by the spoonful. When I insisted that he have some to, he would only take bites in alteration with my own. This same method of feeding went for not only spoonfuls of food, but straw-sips of Sprite.<br /><br />Later that afternoon, I went to Wonderland, a theme park very near to where we are located. The whole 3-block-or-so area is enclosed by a yellow and purple brick wall; I’ve always wondered what was inside Wonderland. Keith and them went for Biz’s birthday. Keith also went another day and played his harmonium in a central area of the park. The spectacle attracted such a massive crowd, the manager had to come by and ask him to leave, as the attention he was getting had become a “business threat”. Just a funny thing. Anyway, upon returning, everyone told me that I HAD to go on this one ride there called Adventureworld. And also that they had to be present with me when I went on it the first time. And also that it would blow my mind, and shatter my ideas of reality. And also that they couldn’t tell me about it so as not to ruin any surprises. I approached the ride skeptically…how was this ride really that great? This visit, we saved it for last. The park consisted of a water ride, bumper cars, some other small things, an aquarium, stuff like that. We also went on a roller coaster simulator. The screen showed us on the rails of a coaster, then suddenly we were flying around in a forest in the twilight, then BAM back to the roller coaster. Adventureworld began with a railed-car train (fitting about 20) entering into darkness. Flashing lights emerged, and faint images of the cavernous space inside Adventureworld. We circled around, then in about 10 seconds, were outside where we started. “Well, that was dumb,” I thought. Nope, we went in again. This time the space was fully lit, and a museum-like model scene of paper-mache hunters hunting tigers in a forest was visible all around us. Suddenly, the train stopped and everyone started piling out. Surprised, I followed the crowd. We entered an entirely concrete room next to the train. The room had a door at the other side. I started to step forward toward it. Out of nowhere, a mouse mascot with a disproportionately large head stepped out of the door. Dance music turned on, along with flashing red and green lights. People giggled and danced; I was motionless with a gaping mouth, completely dumbfounded. We piled back into the train. With a crooked look on my face, the train continued toward the exit. Suddenly I realized that the forest scene on the wall had given way to a war scene, with a medieval-looking city under siege. Just as I realized how out of place the war mural was, we were outside and the ride was over. I was so confused it was hard to stand. I’d like to open a ride like this in the suburbs of Wexford. I imagine it will become the new hang out location for the bored-crazy teenage generation. <br /><br />Last weekend was Durga Puja, a Hindu festival, and Kristen came to visit. Kristen is a girl that I know from high school; we were in the same organic chemistry class. She lives about a 4 minute drive away from my house. We hadn’t interacted throughout our college years, but when something about my being in Bangladesh showed up on her facebook news-feed, she was sure to get in touch with me because, by coincidence, we would be in Bangladesh at the same time. She is working through a program called WorldTeach, which she had also done in Chile. She and about another 10 girls from the US are all teaching at a university in Chittagong, a city 5 hours southeast of Dhaka. I happily offered Kristen a tour of Dhaka and a place to stay along with a few of her friends. It was a wild experience to become reacquainted with an old friend in Dhaka of all places. Kristen and I traveled around to many locations of Dhaka during Durga Puja. The first evening we visited a nearby Hindu area and became the subject of attention at a temple with several hundred people in it. Volunteers running the dance performance there invited us into their home to meet their family and enjoy snacks and sweets. The next day we ventured through an old Hindu part of Dhaka and visited many temples, most of which would offer us candies or spiced rice dishes. The narrow streets were, you guessed it, jam-packed with a thick crowd of people. The streets were covered with ‘Christmas’ lights above, illuminating everything below in a warm light. Incense wafted about. Music played from massive speakers on street corners. While we were on a side street, Keith noticed what looked like a rat and avoided stepping on it. Giving it a second glance, he realized it was a desolate kitten. After a brief pause, he picked it up, unable to walk and covered in sludge that likely was comprised of both sewage and mud. With so many people walking about in a street that was about as wide as a doorway, I wondered how the kitten had survived as long as it did. Keith knew anywhere he left it, it would be in a position that was just as bad as when we found it. Ducking into a nearby temple, we washed it off with water and someone gave us a rag to hold it in. Keith named it Durga, appropriate for the festival time. For the rest of the evening, it was mostly unconscious and looked to be near death, that evening we bought an eye-dropper and fed it some milk. The next day it was livelier, taking a few steps and meowing. Things really looked up until the seizures started that evening and continued through the night. A house-call vet came the next day and determined that intestinal/lung worms was depriving her of nutrition, and a low glucose level was causing brain imbalances. After a day of anti-worm medicine and more milk, Durga has been purring practically non-stop and spends most of her time wrapped up in a cloth in a bundle on Keith’s lap, occasionally learning how to control her limbs by stumbling about the apartment, and of course, entertaining the other Fulbrighters and language teachers with an adorableness that will make anyone smile.<br /><br />It’s difficult for me to not problematize the record of my experience here. For one, I’ve reacted so strongly against photography. One side of this coin is judgment. With a camera in hand, I find myself constantly steeped in a perspective of judgment as to whether or not a spectacle is worthy of snapping a picture or rolling a video. Then, inevitably, you come across something later that is even cooler than before. Soon enough, you’re snapping pictures of everything and living your experience through that judgment and not through the experience itself. Another side of the coin is spectaclization; photographing something makes me feel removed from it, it’s a moment of here’s *I* and here’s *you*, we are separate. Also, my judgment of what’s around me as a spectacle is problematic. The other day the street flooded due to rain. As I walked to the market in knee-high water, I thought about getting my camera for a picture. But…why? First of all, this is not a representative picture of my experience here, this flooding has only happened one day out of the 25 I’ve been here. Second, what does this mean to someone I show this to? I likely overestimate that this person will interrogate their own notions of comfort upon seeing people respond to the flood as if it’s no big deal. More than likely, this person will simply re-edify their notions of Bangladesh as being among other things, an uncomfortable place to be. This is due to the spectacle of Bangladesh, and a spectacle that is shaped in a certain way and which tells a certain story. Yet, by all means, this is not the experience of Bangladesh, and that, I argue, is more important. Many sorts of perceptual undertones riddle spectaclization as well…what do people think when I take pictures of them, or of things in their country that they may or may not want me to see? To what degree is my privilege as a Western traveler being flaunted to the public when I photograph? By extension, to what degree does this privilege reify the notions of Western wealth that is harbored in areas like this? Disproportionate idealizations of the West are constructs that I’m constantly bumping up against here. With the beggar: “Why don’t you give me money…I KNOW you have it!” With the high school student: “I can’t wait until I get an education in the US so I can get a job that makes so much MONEY.” With the businessman on the street: “Why have you come to Bangladesh, the West is so much more comfortable. And why are you learning Banlga? Use your English, that’s obviously the most useful and economically competitive language.” To which my friends and I reply… “No, the job market is incredibly competitive in the US, that is one reason why we are HERE and not back at home.” “No, I don’t have as much money as you think.” “No, many people struggle to be financially comfortable in the US.” “No, there is more to life than just living comfortably.” “No, there is so much to learn by engaging a new culture and language.” Back to photography. Privilege. Economic comfort…I don’t have to participate in the trials of the busy street, I can simply stand on the side, photograph it, and show it to my friends. This alludes to another side of the coin: nominal value. Frequently we do things based on their value by name, or as a narrative. We know these instances, when it will “make a great story.” Why is this so valued though? The other day I was at a temple and, to my surprise, the prime minister was scheduled to come in half an hour. We left before she came, and I found myself disappointed. But why? Was I going to learn something from Sheikh Hasina? Was I going to speak with her and have some sort of engagement? No, probably just a glimpse. And what does that mean? More likely than not, it’s a good story. “Wow, Matt, YOU got to see Sheikh Hasina?? You’re so LUCKY!” And that is a stroke of the ego. So, I react against rationale for behavior that is based on nominal value, there doesn’t seem to be anything to gain other than praise motivated by self-interest. There is so much more to what experience is than just what it’s called, and even the story of it all does not capture it. If I do things for the story, the experience behind it has been nullified. The last side of the coin: consumerism. What is travel? In so many ways, we live travel (and our daily lives) through consumption….clothes, food, culture. What is it that we want from traveling? Consuming psychologically feels as if it’s a way of owning. Both are pillars of a Western-constructed paradigm of what should be valued and how we should go about our lives. Both are projections onto the world that have consequences like depression due to comparison, obesity, and—when going about consumption though economic self-interest—the subjugation of the third world, among many others. The negative judgments of value that I place on materialism, consumerism, and needless ownership are so great that I even read things like photography in this problematic light. Although what travel means and where travel gets you is an inquiry that I constantly am learning more about, one thing is for sure, the beauty of travel has a lot to do with keeping your wallet closed. In an oblique way, photography is a mechanism, much like money, of ownership. In reality, it’s not just photography that I’m talking about, but the objectification of experience. How do I understand what my experience is? If it’s something that I can tell, hold onto an own, or something based on a motivation of nominal value, well, see above. I am striving to live things in a more subjective light, where I’m not as concerned about the story I can generate to stroke my ego, or the picture I can capture to prove to someone what I saw, where I’m not judging everything around me as a spectacle of worthiness or unworthiness, where I break away from the desire to own and consume. The stuff of an experience is a non-objective substance. Yet, we don’t live in ourselves. Our social selves seem to be seeking an objective grasp on things, to compare to the experience of others, to portray ourselves, to elicit the opinions of others. The sharing of ideas and engagement in dialogue is a fantastic opportunity for growth and learning, but it is not propelled by petty objectifications. It is not propelled by showing my friends the cool shirt I found at this one store that an NGO owns. It is not propelled by spectaclizing a culture. Bringing something to the table in a good discussion comes from the essence of personal experience. And the qualia of such experience is NOT sharable directly. We need to get over this. We do not live in an objective world. We live in our relative subjectivity. We do not project the same perceptions of the world outward. We are shaped differently. I do not know you. I do not know Bangladesh. I do not know the culture here. I know my <span style="font-weight:bold;">experience</span> of these things. And as life always seems to go, we never have the whole story of it all.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-79884212636255215642010-09-12T16:52:00.000+05:302010-09-12T16:53:22.356+05:30Mumbai, Hyderabad, and BangaloreThe train arrived in Mumbai very early, at its scheduled time of 5:40 am. Fortunately I was wide awake, still accustomed to waking up at 6 during the Buddhist meditation retreat. From Lonely Planet’s suggestions, the most likely place to find a cheap place to stay is also ironically the more posh place in town (shopping, eating, even the Taj Palace Hotel), called Colaba, located in the southern part of the peninsula on which much of Mumbai sits. Being so early in the morning with much fewer people crowding the area than during the day, it took little time to navigate my way to a local train running south. From there I used the Lonely Planet map to navigate my way on foot into Colaba, and stopped at the Gateway to India (large arch on the coast) and the Taj Palace Hotel across the street. It was quite experience to see the hotel in person, after having seen so much of it on the news 2 years ago during the terrorist attacks. A chai man at the Gateway to India told me that on that day, he and many others thought that the fighting was a local matter between angered neighbors. It was only after the police came in and told them the nature of the situation that they ran for cover to their homes. <br /><br />The least expensive place to stay in the Lonely Planet wasn’t located far away. On my way there, an Indian approached me about the guest house that he worked for, having a dormitory fee of only rs. 200per night. Since this was the cheapest price I’d found so far, I decided to take him up on the offer. This was the first time that I had stayed in a dormitory-style setting. There was bunk-bed space for probably 25 people, although only about half of it was filled. I had a locker under the bed that I could fit all my stuff, and even a fan above the bed. No top sheet, but not to worry, I keep one in my backpack for just such an occasion, as well as for the sleeper-class train rides. <br /><br />After putting my stuff down, I went to a nearby internet café to square away some emails and speak with the parents over skype. Two of my friends, Anu and Ankush, from the University of Hyderabad were in the area, so we planned to convene at Anu’s place (she is living with her older sister while looking for work) that evening, located halfway between me in the south and Ankush in the north. Before getting back on the train though, I stopped for lunch at a suggested restaurant in Colaba on my way to the station. I got several dishes, and they were all really tasty. I was alarmed, however, I find that my feeling in response to the food had a tinge of illness attached to it. I could easily tell that the food was objectively great, but in some way the reminder of having gotten sick from a few weeks ago, attributed to similar-tasting food, lingered in my subjective experience of it. I hadn’t really had much Indian food since the week of my sickness, at Dharamsala I was having spiced-down food, western-esque peanut butter and rolls, or Tibetan-Chinese. By the end of the meal, I became deeply concerned that my affection for Indian food would become permanently altered. Would I be able to enjoy Indian food as much as I had before getting sick, ever? Troubled, I continued to the station. <br /><br />My face filled itself with a smile upon seeing Anu again. Last summer I had met with Ankush in Calcutta, but I hadn’t seen Anu for almost two years. Being with her again reminded me of being back in Hyderabad, and in a way had me realize how things have changed since then, as well as everything that has happened (a year and a half of college etc) in my life since Hyderabad. At her sister’s apartment over tea we chatted for a good while until Ankush arrived, having finished his studies for the day at his college where he was taking a brief course before starting a job. When he came we decided to have dinner there, as Anu’s older sister offered to cook. I of course watched intently over her shoulder, hoping to glean more experience at preparing Indian food, an art which I someday hope to engage myself without being tethered to every step in a cook book. Our meal consisted of rice, daal, aloo gobi (potato-cauliflower fry), curd, spicy pickle relish, and fried onions that the grandmother of anu’s brother-in-law had prepared. I was absolutely perfect. Perhaps my taste in Indian food wasn’t lessened permanently after; perhaps just more seasoned. This was food that I would deem quintessential. Not food that one would seek out at an acclaimed eatery in the center of a city, but food that is enjoyed just about every day by just about everyone in just about every home: Indian food—food that Indians eat. Or so my experience and conceptualizations go; what do I know really, I don’t live here. In any case, my two platefuls were an absolute treat and left a clean and satisfying aftertaste. Continuing to talk amongst ourselves for hours, I didn’t reach my bed in Colaba until about 2 am. Because it was so late, I didn’t bother finding the ticket booth to get a ticket, figuring there probably wouldn’t be someone checking anyway. Wrong. As I was leaving the platform, I was asked for the ticket. A rs. 250 fine isn’t hefty, but is disappointing, as it turned out to be one of those the-one-time-you-don’t-do-it-you-get-screwed events. <br /><br />The next day panned out in a similar pattern. After waking up and visiting the internet café, I showered and got ready for the day. My first stop was to meet Anu at Mumbai Central station where we would walk to a restaurant nearby that sold famously-regarded “snack food.” It’s hard to call snack food as it’s certainly leaps and bounds above a potato chip. We got minted flat rice pancakes, a Fasri (Irani) rice dish, dahi sev puri (small fried breads underneath a bed of crunchies, liquidy yogurt, and spices), and many others. Again, some remote tastes during a bite conjured up a slight sickly feeling, but all was delicious. How conflicting. <br /><br />Anu and I hopped back on the train; she was headed home for a puja ceremony, and I was heading up north to Andheri where Ankush was staying. Above Anu’s location is an entirely different section of Mumbai, and Andheri was in the thick of it. The southern portion, especially Colaba, was relatively spacious, only harbored taxis (no noisy and lower-class autos), and had sporadic British colonial architectures that would remind you of a cathedral or Big Ben. The northern portion smacked me in the face as I stepped of the train at Andheri. I’ve seen some pretty chaotic and crowded places, and this was certainly up on the list. It was a sensory-overload stimulation of a whir of autos, closely weaving people, street food and shops, and a full range of wafting delicious and not-so-delicious smells. Dizzying indeed. I knew Ankush was taking a nap after his classes anyway, so I decided to find a seat on a box where I wouldn’t be in anyone’s way and simply close my eyes. A bit of internalization and sorting things out was just what I needed, as well as time to process everything going on. After a few minutes, I was recharged to tackle Andheri once again all the way to the college, with a cleared mind along the way. <br /><br />The college, much like the University of Hyderabad, was contrastingly spacious and green. His dorm was also new and very nice with tile flooring. After an hour or so of meeting roommates and resting, Ankush and I headed off to a spot where I knew I would like to eat. Out at the main road, autos were everywhere. But not a drop to spare. EVERY one was occupied, and every once in a while when one would come by empty, the driver wouldn’t want to go where we were asking. It took a good 20 or 30 minutes to finally get one, but the time in the choking pollution and honking herd of tightly-weaving autos was worth it. We went to another college, where on the street sat one after the other a line of food venders where the students would frequent. The smell was enough to convince me, as well as the display. The man assembling dosas (think Indian quesadilla) that I watched for a good half hour was obviously experienced, his hands flying fast, spreading out rice batter, tossing around chopped vegetables, sauces, and powdered spices amongst three different dosas at one time. Dosa is a typical south Indian food, usually filled with potato and spices. These were made with the fusion of the culinary traditions of both the north and the south in mind. The form was a dosa, the content much different. The two that Ankush and I got had the tastes of saucy, robust, mouth-watering north Indian masala. And melted cheese. I reminded me of an Indian cross between a quesadilla and pizza, although that of course is a gross oversimplification. Ankush was full after one, but I was so smitten, I had no choice but to order up another one. Worth it, worth it, worth it on all accounts. I have a pretty strict policy against giving out 10s and perfects. My favorite restaurant in Hyderabad earned one though. And this is the second that comes to mind, and the only street food I’ve had that justifies just a high prize. I knew I could count in Ankush I take me to a place that would hit the spot. <br /><br />Ankush went back to study, and on my way back to Andheri station I stopped at a sweet shop and sampled about a dozen different ones. I have become increasingly wrapped up in the fig flavor, and got several of those. After topping it all off with a stick of kulfi, or Indian ice cream (think ice cream with a strong sweetened-condensed milk taste), I made my way to the station. The local train I got on was one of the ‘fast’ ones, only stopping at the select larger stations. Fast indeed. We booked down the track as if we were rocketing out from the underworld, the train jostling sideways back and forth as if we were in the middle of an earthquake. Getting back to the dorm at midnight, it wasn’t difficult to fall asleep immediately, despite the audible television in the lobby and a snoring dorm-mate. <br /><br />The next day, again, internet and shower in the morning. I also checked out and put my bags for the day in a locker at a different hotel. I had heard great things about the local Chowpatti beach, and decided to head there. The beach was a short walk after a short train ride away. Before heading to the beach though, I was sure to pick up a refreshing cup of rose milk at the train station. Just about every time that I was getting off or going onto a train in Mumbai I would have a glass of this. It’s easily recognizable at a vendor’s stand, as it’s bright (practically neon) opaque pink. The milk has a satisfying sweet initial taste, and then a refreshing floral rose aftertaste that lingers. They also add these gel-like fruit seeds in it, giving it a sporadic bubble texture. <br /><br />The beach was probably three-quarters of a mile long and had lots of chaat (snack) and kulfi (ice cream) vendors at one end. The coast was pretty crowded with people, although no beach accessories like umbrellas and towels to get in the way. Most everyone enjoyed the area fully clothed, including the few people in the water; I was astonished to see people in tight jean swimming and then spreading out on the sandy beach after. My perceptions of uncomfortable sensations evidently didn’t apply here. After spending a good deal of time simply sitting on the beach and soaking up the atmosphere, I walked to the other end and eventually found a famous kulfi shop, selling dozens of flavors of the Indian ice cream. I got into a discussion with some similar-aged Germans who were traveling around the world for a year before school started. We shared flavors of fig, banana, mango, chocolate, and pistachio. In the mood for more tasty treats, I made my way over to all the chaat vendors on the beach. First I got this rose-flavored milk slushy (still smitten with the rose flavored milk I’d pick up at the train stations). After that, I found a place that sold kulfi falooda, the sweet ice cream but with flavored noodles spread out on top. Curious, I ordered up a fig kulfi falooda and was completely amazed by it. What a fascinating texture the sloshy noodles and the cooling ice cream made! And lots of flavors involved; half the noodles had rose flavoring and half were flavored with something orange. Filled with my share of sweets, next I got some actual food, a dish that I had been intending on getting for some time called pav bhavi. I hadn’t been really exposed to this in the South, perhaps it was more of a North thing. The plate had a red, blended, masala-laden veg curry on one half, and came with two halved garlic bread-like buns as well as the essential condiments on the side: a heap of chopped onions and lime/lemon slices. Yummmm. Stuffed and actually not feeling too great after so much sugar, I sat at the vendor’s eating area and watched people go past for a good hour: families playing with children, people eating, imagining what the heated conversation was about over there, seeing potential customers be scared away by half a dozen competing and shouting vendors. Heading back at about sunset, my day consisted mostly of relaxing on the beach and eating ice cream.<br /><br />Back in Colaba, the man who showed me to the dorm I stayed at was eager to show me around after I mentioned I wanted to go to the nearby market bazaar. I didn’t realize it, but there was also a massive celebration going on. Today was a festival to Krishna, and the whole day massive truckloads of celebrating men wearing colored shirts could be heard here and there honking and shouting and cheering and clanging their drums like a marching band percussion section. That wasn’t the end of it though. Originating from one of Krishna’s stories, the custom was for these excited groups to form human pyramids in the middle of the street in order to reach a lofty clay jar strung between two buildings. The man at the top would shatter it and colored liquid dye would shower everyone. Walking around the market place, every once in a while you’d see a smaller group assemble and try to get to one. Once the point man got to the top of the 3-or-so story pyramid, I was surprised to see him smash his head into the pot, sending bright pink color everywhere. Jumping back, I still was splattered with a few spots. In other areas, massive crowds of cheering people would fill large intersections in front of a bright colored stage blasting music from massive speakers, shaking the whole area. A large team would assemble under a pot strung from a crane or from what must have been the fifth stories of buildings. One layer after the other, the pyramid would be constructed, and if the whole mass of people didn’t collapse before reaching the top, smashing the pot would send everyone back into a frenzy of cheering. <br /><br />Back at the hotel I gathered my bags and chatted with an Israeli traveler until it was time for me to head to the train station. After a goodbye and a thank you to the hotel man who I had spent the evening with wandering around the celebration to Krishna, I loaded into the taxi to take me to CST terminal and reached with time to spare observing the thick scurrying crowd that filled the 14 platforms. CST is probably Mumbai’s most famous train station, adorned with a picturesque massive colonial building face and shoveling in and out record numbers of thousands of people every day. <br /><br />The ride to Hyderabad was an exciting one, not because it was eventful but because I couldn’t wait to get back to the city as I reminisced of my favorite restaurants and other nostalgic sights, smells, and friends that I associated with the area. Unloading at about 12:30 in the afternoon with my bags and all, I hopped right back onto a local train and headed immediately to my top priority for my visit to Hyderabad: a massive lunch at Paradise Restaurant. I had been waiting for this for almost 2 years. Still remembering the way from the train station and recognizing some buildings on the way, I basked in the aromatic waftings of the restaurant after I reached and contemplated what I would order. I knew I wanted chicken biryani (flavorful rice dish cooked with ghee and layered with spices), of which the restaurant and Hyderabad as a whole is famous. I also knew I wanted the malai kofta. I decided to order a new dish as well to see how I liked it, a pepper curry. And boy did I chow down. Helping after helping, I chowed down enough food for about three people. Remember my hesitancy to dish out 10/10? The malai kofta at Paradise is the second 10 that I have no problem admitting. Too hard to describe. Just go and get it, then you’ll see. Like a pig rolling around in a mud pit, I must have had a wide smile spread across my face the whole time, as I was finally back to my favorite and long-awaited-for restaurant. <br /><br />Taking care not to crush my bulging stomach with my backpack in my front, I went back to the train station and headed toward the other end of the city to the University of Hyderabad where I intended to stay at the new international guest house. The old guest house that I had spent a good deal of time in 2 years ago had been converted into a Ladies Hostel (as well as the International Student Hostel where I used to live), and starting the semester after I left, the SIP house and international hostel were combined into a massive dorm located at the other end of campus. I was excited to see the new place, however its great distance from the front part of campus meant that I’d need to take a rickshaw from the main gate there. Despite even the speed of a bicycle, a 15 minute ride is required if you want to get from the entrance of campus to the new international hostel. The Muhlenberg students that went there after me complained a bit about how far away it was from the rest of campus, including the academic buildings, and I don’t blame them. Of course it is so much nicer and more spacious than the old guest house. We used to have to squeeze through thin halls that could barely fit two passing people, but now the halls were so spacious you could drive a car through them. Voices would echo down the concrete halls but never reach the other end, dissolving into the spacious area as the halls extended past dozens and dozens of rooms. One could barely recognize another from one end of the living room to the other. Our old living room crammed in about 15 chairs, usually filled, as that was the only area to get internet access. Now all the rooms have their own Ethernet jacks. Suffice it to say, I was quite wide-eyed at the changes. Since I’ve been on campus, not only has the new international hostel been finished, but also several other dorms that hold 400 each on that end of campus, as well as many other buildings including a new shopping center. With thousands of acres, the university sure had the space for expansion.<br /><br />It was a treat to see Mr. Das, the house coordinator, again. The familiar face brought back a great deal of memories, especially about the lazy afternoons I would spend by his desk writing or checking emails on my laptop, as well as all the advice that he would share about traveling and the city, whether leisurely over a cafeteria meal or in one of many, many prompted conversations. He has always brought an air of relaxation and calm to the sometimes irritated guest house (especially in the close quarters we used to be in). After chatting and catching up for some time, I unpacked all my things into my room (with two large windows, a/c, desk, stone floors and all) and took a much-needed shower. That evening I spent meeting many students, exchanging stories, playing sitar and tabla again, and chatting well into the night. <br /><br />The next morning was an early one. At 5:15 my alarm woke me up mid-dream and I got dressed for yoga. Almost a dozen international students in the certification program do this every day except Sunday. I used to roll out of bed 5 minutes before and be there more-or-less on time; now with a lengthy bike ride ahead of us to north campus, the wakeup call was much earlier. Fortunately one of my new acquaintances let me borrow his bike. The yoga class went same as always, and it was refreshing to get re-familiarized with the routine that I had grown accustomed to 2 years ago but since have mostly forgotten. Both yoga teachers recognized me, well at least by the end. The older teacher that would correct our postures (who the international students would affectionately call ‘grandpa’) stepped into my vision at a few points in time with a confused look and a furrowed brow. By the end, he not only remembered me but also my family, as I had shown him pictures on my laptop 2 years ago. <br /><br />After class, two students, Jeff and Amanda, were interested in seeing a part of the north campus that I had used to go running in. They hadn’t seen past the yoga studio, but the life sciences/biochemistry and chemistry buildings were further down the road, as well as several others I didn’t know and another massive one that I was surprised to see under construction. We continued to ride farther and farther all the way to a precarious rock formation that I was glad to see still standing in its mind-bending balanced position. Exploring farther into unchartered territory for all of us, we continued down a dirt road to a ‘town’ of skeletal concrete buildings, consisting only of their frames as if the entire town was simultaneously under construction…or devastated by an atomic bomb. The town spread out for at least a kilometer or two; we reasoned that perhaps these were to be workers buildings or a new housing complex for professors. Riding farther still we climbed to the top of a rocky hill that rose up above the area to see if we could manage a vantage point to see if it were possible to continue down a road or pounded cow path back to the international hostel rather than circle back. From the top, we could see the chemistry building by the yoga studio, as well as the spread of campus back all the way to the south end, including the international hostel probably 2 km ahead in the distance. Although we felt like it would be a possibility to reach by continuing forward, we were deterred by realizing that from the top of our massive hill, things must seem closer in the distance than they actually were. Additionally, what looked like thick brush surrounded the international hostel and seemed like it would be hard to get through. The view was worth the hike, and a massive man-made gorge sank into the earth on one side of our view and stretched probably half way to the hostel. Our jaws dropped upon first spotting it. Perhaps it was a quarry for stone that the university needed for all of its new construction projects. From our view, it was easy to see how massive the campus is. That’s not the lot of it though, there are several lakes I’ve heard about that I haven’t seen too. <br /><br />Reasoning that it was too much of a risk to continue onwards, we headed back the LONG journey back to the hostel, hoping to arrive before our much-deserved breakfast ended. With flattening tires, it was a chore for me to pedal and I spent most of the way pedaling standing. Sweaty, muddy, and exhausted (and only just before 9 am), the guest house breakfast of French toast, granola with milk, eggs, and bananas was just what I needed. We decided to take a quick nap afterwards. <br /><br />At 11, I joined my friends along with several others to visit an organization that schooled women as well as sold cloth, clothing, sheets, and other merchandise that they made. We even got a tour of the multiple sari looms, mesmerizing sights when in operation that can entertain for hours. Everyone was heading off to visit Hyderabad’s famous tombs afterward. Having already seen them, I hopped back on a bus heading into the thick of the city to visit my favorite chaat (snackfood) location. My favorite dish consists of a pie crust-like pastry filled with spices and potato crushed and underneath a heap of sweet liquid curd, tangy tamarind sauce, crunchies, spices, coriander leaves, etc etc for a treat jam-packed with multiple flavors, all intermingling and jumping around in the palate as if it were a party. Having, again, eaten enough for 3 people, I strolled around the crowded shopping area and picked up a fig-almond milkshake, a cup of sweet lime juice, and a mouthful of freshly made sweet paan (leaf rolled with spices, sweets, nuts, berries, and coconut bunched up into a cheek-stretching roll). By the time I made it on the bus, it was the busy time of the city. Suffice it to say, the trip back to campus (for most of which I was standing) took 2 full hours. Worth it. <br /><br />When I got back to campus (well, the south campus hostel area after a lengthy bike ride), I visited with a few Indian students that I had briefly met 2 years ago and who Ankush and Anu put me in touch with. Their new dorms, although scaled down a tad (no a/c, no internet yet) from the international hostel, were even more massive and seemed to house as many people as a high-rise apartment building. For dinner I joined them in their mess hall, enjoying for only rs. 20 a plate of mixed veg curry and limitless rice and daal. They brought a homemade pickle (not dill, a chutney-like picked mixture of pepper, fruit, and spices) to enjoy with the meal. When I asked to taste some, one of them turned and looked at me with unwavering intention. With conviction he said slowly *Matt. This is so. Spicy.* I was like “That’s no problem, I can handle spice!” *Matt, you don’t understand, this is made from the hottest peppers in the world. They come from the Northeast and are rated by the Guinness book of records as spicier than any other pepper in existence.* Excited, I took a tiny, tiny amount to taste. Mixing in a small portion of that into a few bites was quite a punch of spice! Certainly nothing that I couldn’t handle, just making sure that I didn’t get in any bite more than a square half centimeter of pepper. Not only spicy but flavorful, it made the already delicious food twice as tasty. <br /><br />That evening I headed off with Elliot, a student from the US, to Lingampally, a town nearby. I used to visit the area quite a bit 2 years ago, as it was relatively close to campus. There we found good haleem (a plate of paste consisting of pounded meat, flour, and spices), a dish eaten after sunset during the Islam holy fasting month of Ramadan. After a cup of chai and some chatting with others seated around the stone haleem vat, I bought Elliot some sweet paan and giggled as he would exclaim a loud “WHOA” every time another one of paan’s multiple intense flavors emerged. We strolled around and got some sweets and juice before heading back to campus, followed by a movie on my laptop with about a dozen other students crowded in someone’s room, followed by collapsing into bed and sleeping until 11 the next morning.<br />That afternoon I headed down into the thick of the old city. I had always remembered the area as a fascinating place: the place to go for authentic food, the Charminar four-pillared monument in the middle of the center intersection, the massive mosque nearby, women in burkas, sparkley bangles, captivating perfumes, and a packed dusty crowd to fill in the gaps. I don’t think I had gone during Ramadan though. From the train station, the auto driver dropped the passenger load off near the main road, as there was no possible way to get closer to the Charminar area. I’ve seen a lot of crowded places in India. This experience took the cake. From the moment I stepped out of the auto, I realized that my personal space barrier needed to shrink to literally only the space my body was occupying. In the whole road, there was not a space that was not filled with a person or occasional irritating motorcycle trying without avail to navigate the crowd. Dazed, I was following as closely as possible someone I had met in the auto. He was half Swedish and half Syrian, and we had struck up a conversation in the auto from the start, realizing that we were both foreigners. He had been working in the Hyderabad area on and off with an NGO for some time, and we were surprised to find that we had both been in Hyderabad at the same time two years ago. A few times he had been on the campus during that semester, and we must have crossed paths at least once because he was able to list all of the friends I had had living in the international student hostel. So anyway, I had followed him to his NGO and then decided to set off (this time not on the main road) to find a famous biriyani place. Eventually stumbling upon it amongst the thick crowd, I ordered up a bowl of their chicken biriyani and a suggested vegetable curry. Good thing I arrived early, the dinner crowd was so huge the wait must have been an hour or so. The meal was delicious, although not surpassing my favorites at Paradise restaurant. Picking up a sweet milky rosy creamy…noodle…dessert and paan just outside the restaurant, I headed back to the train station area, but not without sampling some of my favorite (lotus, sandal, other flowers) perfumes along the way. Disappointed to see that the train had already left, and unexcited about the hour and a half wait for the next train, I took an auto back to Lingampally, which was more costly than I thought, and with traffic, turned out to take much longer as well. <br /><br />In the shared auto from Lingampally back to campus, a few of the others in the auto started asking me if I had been taking classes on the campus before. They nodded and smiled when I had said I was studying through the SIP program 2 years ago, as they had been students then too and had seen me perform in the cultural performance at the end of the semester (sitar, tabla, kathak, etc). Evidently it had made an impression if two years later they recognized my face in the inside of a dark auto. Despite the long time since being back on campus, it was obvious that a pool of people still existed that knew me. In addition to the coincidental meeting in the old city of all places, as well as the run-in inside the auto back to campus, the day before I was walking out of my friends’ dorm when Sarves (anthropology classmate from 2 years ago) rounded the hall corner on his motorcycle. I hadn’t seen his face, but he yelled MATT, immediately recognizing me. In the same way, 2 days later another classmate from anthropology, Nagaraju, shouted for me as we passed by each other simply walking on the road to and from the hostel area.<br /><br />Back on campus, I decided to head to Gops, the student canteen where I always used to spend time, to get paneer masala for dinner. This dish was another I had waited for for 2 years. Although I suppose you could call it fast food, the taste of the dish was so distinct and upon my first bite, my memory filled itself with late night dinners with Ankush, Bikram, Sumedha, Anu, Vipin, Rakesh, etc etc., how all their personalities would converge in our conversations, hanging out after dinner at the rock nearby or watching House on someone’s laptop in a dorm room…all that stuff we used to do came flooding back to me. I also could compare how I used to perceive the area with my perceptions now in a way. It’s difficult to articulate, but much of the impact of my second visit to Hyderabad has been attributed to triggered memories emerging not just for nostalgia’s sake, but to readily demonstrate how things used to be for me, in comparison to what they are now. For instance, I had been so starry-eyed upon first being in India that everything had this glitter about it. Of course that didn’t last forever, and this doesn’t mean that I’ve become less interested in India or what my time is like in the country, but just that what is around me doesn’t mean the same anymore. Just as we grow desensitized to patterns and normalities around us, eventually not everything catches my eye in the same way it did before; in addition, you start to realize and notice other things. Such ‘other things’ I still have yet to really explicitly grasp, but it certainly has something to do with being less interested in the consumer nature of travel. I don’t feel like I have to soak up everything to the extent I used to, and so much so that I realize now in a way I lost sight of my own self and perspective/world view. It’s not about losing oneself anymore in an exotic fantasyland. It feels more like bringing oneself to the table to have a conversation with an eccentric friend who in a way is an old acquaintance, but in another way always has something unexpected to say, emerging from depths that extend limitlessly into the unfamiliar. <br /><br />Although there was no one at Gops that I knew (reaffirming how times have changed), I was about to have another coincidental run-in. Amidst my reminiscing thoughts, a girl about my age approached me from the across table. Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I figured she was a crony of my circle of new-fashioned and open-minded friends. *Hi. You don’t know me but I know you.* A smile came across my face. “How?” *Umm, mostly through facebook pictures; the year after you left, I became friends with Sumedha and Anu and Ankush and all them.* Her nickname is Sid, she’s a second year Biochemistry master’s student. After some conversation, we joined Arpan, Pavel, and others in a classroom in the humanities building where I met another of this second generation of the same circle of friends. <br /><br />The next morning I woke up for yoga, had the delicious guest house breakfast afterwards, took a nap, and did laundry. Since it had been quite a while since washing my clothes at Tushita, I needed to wash just about every article I owned. Washing clothes in a bucket is no problem, but drying them always is. I was disappointed to smell that the odor from my washed clothes was much worse when they had dried the next day than before I had washed them. For this reason I do not like to wash clothes. The smell of clothes that haven’t dried quickly enough (at least I think that’s the reason) puts the strongest frown on my face. I’m baffled. How do people wash clothes here? There are no machines on campus. Why doesn’t everyone smell awful? We all have to dry them in the same air. It’s extremely confusing. <br /><br />That afternoon/evening Elliot (SIP student from Utah) and I ventured back into Lingampally for biriyani. Actually, we had many things. In fact, if there were any culinary endeavor one were interested in experiencing in Hyderabad, I think we hit it up. First, we stopped at a sweet shop and ordered about a dozen different treats to sample; after assembling a box of our favorites to take back to the university, we moved onto a few dishes of chaat. Elliot hadn’t experienced chaat before, so I was sure to include all my favorites. After a glass of fresh squeezed grape juice and relatively full but still not on to the main course, we hopped into the well-known Lingampally biryani place and shared a plate of beef biryani. And got a plate of beef haleem on the side. After finishing, we made our way to a nearby place that we had already visited a few days ago; we knew that they had delicious sweet paan. While chewing on our juicy, sweet, betel medleys, we watched some men pounding haleem in a vat. With massive 7 foot wooden hammers, two men would alternatively forcefully slide their hammerheads into the vat back and forth, as synchronous as rowing a boat, and obviously requiring at least as much energy. The mixture of meat, flour, and spices needs to be pounded in this way for hours during the day time before it is ready for breaking the daily fast in the evening. <br /><br />Back on campus, we shared our box of sweets with about 6 others who congregated in my room to watch another movie on my laptop called “What the Bleep Do We Know?” The movie details neuroscientific, psychological, and quantum physical realities that question the foundations of how we know what we think we do about the world around us. I highly recommend it. <br /><br />The next morning I woke up to late to make it to the yoga session, but ran to the studio to say goodbye to the teachers. The morning and afternoon was jam-packed with saying goodbye to friends, organizing and packing things up, and enjoying one last meal at the guest house. The guest house lunches were always my favorite. For an entire week 2 years ago, I remember only eating lunches every day, having so much that there was no need to eat until 1 pm the next day. This last day, lunch contained my two all-time favorites, eggplant and the sweet gulab jamun (balls of milky dough fried and soaked in rose-flavored sugar syrup). I don’t know whether someone had overheard me talking about my hopes of feasting on these again or whether the will of God that day was merciful, but somehow I this lunch came together as the perfect last meal, having the remaining dishes that I could have hoped to taste again while in Hyderabad. Feasting down several helpings of eggplant and gulping down nearly a dozen gulab jamun, my culinary expectations of returning to Hyderabad were fulfilled. <br /><br />Although this was only my fifth day in Hyderabad, it was difficult to say goodbye to my new SIP friends. I felt like I knew them in the same way I knew my old exchange friends from two years ago. I felt as though we were going to spend a lot more time together exploring the city and such like we used to do. All good things must come to an end though, and after saying farewell to Mr. Das (who five days ago was really the only person that I explicitly knew on campus), I made my way to the station, meeting a friendly local named Siddharth who I talked with while waiting for the train to take me to Bangalore. <br /><br />The area near the train station in Bangalore was littered with relatively budget guest houses, but one after the other was filled. It took scouting out about a dozen places before I found one that had a vacancy. That evening I met up with Sumedha (undertaking PhD in economics) and Meenakshi (working at an NGO focused on revitalizing indigenous healthcare practices) at a bar/restaurant in an upscale mall to celebrate Sumedha’s 23rd birthday. I hadn’t seen either of them for 2 years, but once seated at our table, it was just as if we were back at Gops. Sam was also there, a friend of Sumedha’s and Meenakshi’s. After a pitcher of beer, food, and chocolate cake under conversations of the US economy and Indian nationalism alongside jokes about our past at Hyderabad, we walked to Sam’s close-by apartment to spend the night. We fell asleep to a Robin Williams standup comedy show and the ‘Soup Nazi’ Seinfeld episode on Sam’s laptop. <br /><br />The next evening I met Annapurna for dinner at her home. Annapurna was our CIEE tour guide on the two trips that our group took while staying at Hyderabad. During those trips Annapurna and I spent a good deal of time conversing about India and our lives. I was glad to still have her number, as visiting her again was just what I needed. After meeting her newly-adopted 4 year old daughter and a delicious meal of guacamole, mint chutney, kichiri rice, and veg pulao, we chatted for hours about pasts as well as Buddhist ideas of being and knowing, and how this relates to intelligence vs. feeling. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the relationship of intelligence and feeling, and whether conceptualization, analysis, rationalization, and objectivity (what might be called intelligence) are inherently separate from the subjective feelings, experiences, and emotions that we have. Perhaps my recent investigation into the Buddhist dharma dealing with the investigation of subjective experience has prompted this in a way. The seemingly vast rift separating these areas I think is a construction based on the value judgment that is placed on emotion being rash but substantiating life, and on logical rationalization having long-term objective applicability and defining life based on principles and codes. I’m sure many of us relate to being caught up in deciding between the two. Also, consistently serving one over the other can understandably lead to problems like mid-life crises, an insecure lifestyle, and a mind-body disconnect. But I wonder if such a divide is inherent, as if in any decision we need to choose between emotion and intellect, or whether such a lens of looking at ourselves in the world is a construction in order to understand things better, in which case the boundaries of our conceptualizations of rationalization and personal experience become much more fluid and blurry, suggesting our role in forcing the two apart. Just another facet of how we understand ourselves in the world around us. And as such the queries of a curious mind, prompted by this stimulating environment, proceed.<br /><br />The following day began one step at a time, first with a lazy wake up, then with some stretching, then with laundry, then with a shower. Most of the clothes I was washing I was rewashing in the hopes of having them smell normal. I craftily strung my computer chord and cell phone charger wires diagonally across my room to hang dry them under the ceiling fan. With the fan on high and all the windows open, it was my hope that drying would proceed as fast as possible. <br /><br />That afternoon I went by bus to the M.G. Road area, a very posh and trendy part of Bangalore, no doubt a section of town to which Bangalore owes its reputation for being one of the most developed cities in India. Walking around my jaw was practically perpetually dropped. KFCs, McDonalds, designer clothing, several multi-level shopping malls, frozen yogurt to rival LA and New York’s Pinkberry, and fancy adolescent groups of friends all about, as well as families with children who always seemed to be dissatisfied and screaming. My only indulgence (this isn’t my kind of area to actually consume) was a smoothie from a Jamba Juice-esque place. I was sucked in to the mango madness flavor along with the appeal of health-boosting antioxidant, brain power, metabolism, wheat grass, protein, and spirulina smoothie accessories. After people watching and exploring, I stopped into a restaurant Annapurna suggested to me in the area and ordered a delicious meal of Keralan chicken curry, palak, and rice. While waiting for the food I browsed through some new books that I had bought from street-side stores (selling copied books for fractions of the fixed prices you see in the States). One is a book on the 2012 prophesies, another a book about reality suggested by a friend in Hyderabad, and another that Annapurna suggested: an account of spiritual mindfulness drawing its material from the ancient cultures of Tibet and the far east and dovetailing nicely with the dharma of Mahayana Buddhism. <br /><br />That evening back at the guest house I was happy to smell that the clothes were relatively normal and to feel that most were sufficiently dry. And I went to bed happy.<br /><br />The next day I met Annapurna and her daughter for lunch at a south-Karnatakan (of the southern state Bangalore is in) village home-like restaurant that served a meal like I wouldn’t believe. Laid out on the table was a wide banana leaf for each of us, and as the meal progressed, men would stop by with pales of food and give you a spoonful. One after another after another, soon the banana leaf was filled with an assortment of tasty servings. Then they kept coming with different ones, and more and more. Initially the taste was so delicious I was sure that I would need second and third helpings of every dish, but by the time we rolled around to what must have been the 25th dish, I realized that I’d only be able to fit one serving of each. For the first time in my remembered history, it was necessary to be creative with how you ate this meal. With one or two dishes, it’s really no issue; you can combine, eat separate, whatever. With a dozen in front of you, things change. You want to get the best taste out of it, and that doesn’t mean eating one thing at a time nor eating random ones right after the other or combined. Becoming familiar with the taste of each, you realize what tastes good combined with what, what after what, what before what, etc etc. As they kept coming with more and more, at times I would practically short-circuit, unable to figure out how to proceed. The process became an art, creating the taste in your palate with the painting-board of culinary colors and varieties in front of you. One shock after another, my mouth filled itself with a brand new taste I had never before conceived of over and over. It was like swimming for the first time or riding a bike for the first time or something, simply astonishing, and totally new. And as we concluded, I realized that the meal had been the tastiest that I can remember having in India. <br /><br />We headed back to Annapurna’s home and the three of us painted a small Ganesh statue (it was Ganesha’s birthday, as well as the Muslim holiday of Eid). After a quick nap and more conversation over afternoon tea, I headed back out into the trendy M.G. Road area to meet Sumedha and Meenashki again. We’d peruse through the streets; when they’d step into a purse or shoe shop I would sit on the front steps and watch people pass. Then we had a banana split. And more exploring and chatting over coffee. Soon enough, it was time to say our goodbyes. In the same way as I loved being back in Hyderabad, it had been a very therapeutic experience to meet with these people again. To realize that they still existed, that time continued here too, but these people still were here just as I remembered them. Not floating away in some far-off fantasyland, as India had felt to me before, but other people on planet Earth that didn’t feel as far away as they used to be. <br /><br />Today I took one last adventure through the bus system to a nearby area for lunch. The bus system in Bangalore is the main means of public transportation. It is arguably the most extensive and intricate of any city in the country, and the city bus stand by where I’m staying has dozens of platforms. For me, it was too difficult to figure out. Asking people/drivers/bus conductors where buses were going and where to find the buses I needed was a must. Basically, amidst hundreds of buses, a complicated numbering system, and thousands of destinations, the process became relatively simplified by just asking around. So, after about 5 attempts, I found someone who knew where I wanted to go, and he led me to the correct bus. Annapurna had suggested this place, a dhaba (eatery) right next to a sikh temple, for its delicious Punjabi food. Punjabi, and north Indian food in general, is what we from the US usually think of when Indian food comes to mind. Food from the southern regions is largely neglected in the US, but is a wonder to enjoy. I had debated on whether or not to revisit the Karnataka restaurant that Annapurna and I had visited yesterday, but after much deliberation, settled on this Punjabi place. I was interested mainly trying something new and also seeing whether or not it upheld its championed seat as one of the most famous and delicious Indian food types. The dhaba was surely maintained a small, homely feel. With only about 10 tables inside a concrete and steel-roofed hut, the wait to enter was about an hour. Guess that means it’s well liked by the locals. I had ordered an eggplant dish, a paneer dish, and a dal dish, along with rice and paratha bread. The other three at my table ordered the same dal dish and paratha for each. They understandably left much before I had finished. Guess that means I finished 9x the amount of food that any of the other 3 at my table had. I served up everything onto my plate, and tasted the dal before the bread arrived. The look on my face must have been one of astonishment; my eyes widened and my eyebrows raised, and a smile creeped up one side of my mouth. This was one of the best dals I had ever tasted. It was hard to describe, but we’ll leave it at very good. I had to finish my helpings even before I introduced bread and rice into the mix. The other two were equally shockingly delicious, as well as horrifyingly heavy. The food swam under a thin layer of oil, and was drizzled on top with a heap of ghee (clarified butter). Similarly, the paratha had a dollop of ghee on top. Filled to the brim, and stomach tight and heavy, I waddled outside and visited the temple for some time. I bet when I sweat I’ll start to smell like spoiled milk and cheese. The meal was very filling and delicious, but in comparison to the Karnataka meal I had yesterday, not as satisfying nor refreshing. All Indian food types have their pluses and minuses, but one thing is for sure, over the past cumulative 7 months I’ve been in India, I’ve surely warmed up to the south Indian taste of things quite a bit.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-71398625232883539712010-08-31T12:00:00.001+05:302010-08-31T12:04:54.126+05:30The Dalai Lama and AmritsarScurrying down the hill from Dharamkot to McLeod Ganj in the morning I ran into a few others from my group who were also on their way to the Dalai Lama. They’d already been to his temple before our Tushita course, so they knew where to go, although it wasn’t hard to find anyway. Fortunately I remembered not to bring my phone nor my camera, because electronics other than a radio were prohibited and kept on a shelf outside. After being thoroughly searched, we made our way within the thick crowd to see if we could squeeze in on the upper floor where the Dalai Lama would be teaching. Outside many people sat, waiting to see if they could get a glimpse as he walked into the temple from his home. His temple is very modest; most of it is concrete floors and pillars to house the massive crowds that gather for his teachings. Only a relatively small space in the middle would remind you of a temple, a token Buddha statue in the back. We were able to find a few spaces on the cushioned floor amongst the sea of red-robed monks just outside the main temple room, although not in front of a door which would have allowed a direct view of His Holiness. It was no matter, I was listening to the translation on the radio anyway, and a TV not too far away displayed him as he lectured from his seat at the front of the temple. <br /><br />It took a while to locate the right station, not only because there were translation channels for about half a dozen languages, but also because the radio was so tiny that any movement on the scanning dial would skip several channels. The translator must have been taking notes, because the Dalai Lama would speak for about 10 minutes before a translation was offered. It was funny to see all the Tibetans laughing at one point in time, then wondering what they were laughing at, then seeing all the westerners giggling at the same point in time during the translation 15 minutes later. The Dalai Lama had a lot of important things to say, but was not a serious or imposing man. He has a lot of good energy and enthusiasm, but is not forceful or intense, contributing to a jovial and lighthearted atmosphere. <br /><br />Some select notes that I took: Although all sentient beings experience mental states like mental pain, the human-experienced mental pain is more intense than that of animals because we harbor a greater depth of hopes and fears. This contributes to a greater amount of anxiety. Some issues require using the mind itself to solve, others require other antidotes. For instance, anxieties and suffering due to outside attachments are only solvable by cultivating a sound state of mind. Poverty in Bihar, though, can only be attended by science/technology and the administration of the government. Through life, we put our faith and hopes into deities, gods, institutions like the government, science, technology, etc., but it should never be forgotten that mental peace can be attributed to none other than the mind itself, not even faith in the Buddha will afford this. Additionally, the advancements of neuroscience, despite how extensive they are, cannot detect whether a cognition is valid or invalid (for instance, mistaking a rope for a snake versus recognizing an actual snake). In this way, the validity of reality cannot be explained in terms of the brain, only the mind. This delineates a boundary where on one side the sciences explain things and on the other, the ethics, epistemology, and metaphysics of a field of thought such as Buddhism. On the same note, just as we cannot detect via the brain a valid or invalid cognition, we cannot detect compassion versus suffering from the brain alone, as the same part of the brain is stimulated during both. Perhaps feeling deep compassion means feeling the willingness to take on great suffering, hence the overlap. The “foolishness” and ambiguity of the brain applies in a simple way to the eyes as well: a tear alone cannot tell you whether it is of joy or sorrow, or even of heavy laughter. The audience laughed when the Dalai Lama proposed that if the eyes were honest about their tears, only the left eye would release tears of sorrow and the right eye would only cry when experiencing joyfulness. But obviously this is not the case, just as the scientific acknowledgement of a mental cognition does not reveal the entirety of the cognition’s nature. True to his stance on collaboration and conversation between the sciences and Buddhist thought, a good portion of the Dalai Lama’s lectures commented like this. Despite how Buddhist ideas of reality may initially clash with a Western perspective, the Dalai Lama is NEVER about suggesting that Buddhism holds the truth above other perspectives and the advancements of western sciences; he only comments on the useful fruit that can be grown through the conversation of both. Much of what he mentioned I remember hearing at Tushita as well. Another interesting point for instance was about independent versus dependent existence. We conventionally recognize things as existing independently, as entities with qualities and values that exist by their own side, contained within. Conventional language is a testament to this: me versus you, and I, me, mine. Such terms suggest a ‘self’ that exists by its own side. Buddhist perspective suggests that things exist relatively and through dependence rather than separately. Just as we cannot recognize a nature that is not dependent on some prior cause or condition, the self is a convention that carries along with it the baggage of the ego, an attachment-laden aspect of ourselves that is founded on a faulty recognition of reality. Reality does not consist of separate, independent selves and objects; all are related and exist through each other; the nature of reality is one of relative existence, not absolute. <br /><br />About half an hour into the first lecture, robed men came around distributing small, flat, circular loaves of bread, and later they had large pots of hot butter tea, common in the Tibetan region. My friends had brought extra cups in anticipation of the tea, and I was grateful that they gave me one because it was an experience I did not want to miss. I’ve heard about butter tea, mostly negative comments and grimacing faces, but also a few soaring compliments. The director at Tushita compared butter tea more to a soup than a tea. The butter tea they served at the temple was very light in color, almost white, and was liquidy enough for me to recognize it as tea. Its initial taste was very salty, as if you were sipping salt water. Soon after, the palate was filled with the taste of butter, followed by an aftertaste of whole milk. The best part was dipping the bread into the tea itself. Filling enough to make you want to hike up a Himalayan mountain.<br /><br />After the two hour lecture, we had a two hour break for lunch, which was followed by another two hour lecture. For lunch, the three I had been sitting with (Anna-Sweden, Jonah-Ireland, and Ankit-England) and I went to a Japanese restaurant. It came highly recommended by them, and with good reason too, the food was astounding. The restaurant is a portion of an NGO that does a great deal of work and advocacy for Tibetan refugees; Ankit had spent a few weeks before with the NGO teaching working-class Tibetans English, a powerful experience which he wanted to continue in the following days. Ankit told me that one of his students questioned why Ankit thought any western government like the US is intervening with the situation in Tibet. Did they know that over a million Tibetans have been killed and continue to face sever persecution? No one seems to be doing anything about it. Ankit spoke about the deep relationship that the US has with China, forged on strong trade relations (and a bottomless debt owed due to the recent costly war in the Middle East). “What are they trading that is so important?” Ankit was speechless when thoughts of toys and other consumer products ran through his head. <br /><br />After the second lecture had ended and we had waded through the thick crowd, Ankit and I found an internet café to check mails and skype. Afterward, we decided to head over to the Common Ground restaurant for an ice cream dessert (with a side of almond toffee and drizzled with warm caramel) that we were craving. Although I had thought about meeting some people at a pizzeria later on, I decided to get some food at the Common Ground, loving the atmosphere and salivating at the thought of the delicious dishes I had sampled last time. Ordering up some Tibetan specialties, a few others (from India and Holland) trickled in. Eventually we all ordered dinner and chatted for a while, reminiscing more about Tushita as well as talking about social similarities and differences amongst our countries. <br /><br />That evening Ankit and I went to the local cinema to see Inception (which I had heard a great deal about in the US). Right behind us in the theater were 3 Tushita-ers from the US. It put such a smile on my face that literally every place I would wander to in McLeod and even Dharamkot, I would inevitably cross paths with friends from the mediation course. <br /><br />Late that evening back at the guest house in Dharamkot, I was disappointed to find that my room key was missing from my pocket. It must have slipped out during the Dalai Lama’s lectures, maybe when I was taking out the radio or something. With little else to do, I took the restaurant owner’s suggestion and slept on the cushioned floor of the restaurant, along with the blanketed handful of kitchen workers. The next morning I had intended on catching a bus to Amritsar. Since that journey would take some time, the earlier I left the better; however, if I couldn’t get into the room, perhaps it would prevent me from getting to Amritsar altogether and missing my train to Mumbai, which was departing the next evening. <br /><br />The next morning I asked the owner if he had a spare key; he didn’t. We both concurred that the only option remaining was to break into the room, and the owner was nice enough to locate a nearby crowbar and steel rebar which he used (along with a good deal of effort) to burst the lock open to the door. Relieved and thankful, I sorted through my things and packed everything up. I was able to leave Dharamkot in time for a quick bit of breakfast in McLeod, but not before buying a new lock for the door and also getting some new holes repaired in my pants from auntie next door. Scurrying onto the bus, I had about 20 seconds before it departed the bus stand. <br /><br />During a stop in Dharamsala, I was happy to see that Nuria, a Tushita-er from Spain, was also heading to Amritsar. She is an art teacher at a university in Barcelona, and is going back home in a few days for the start of a new class. We spoke a good deal and marveled at the far-reaching views of vast river gorges and sheer mountain drops outside. I was glad to have spent so much time in the Dharamsala area; as the terrain got flatter and the temperature hotter, I was realizing how refreshingly different the past few weeks had been. After a 4 ½ hour bus ride to Pathankot and a 3 hour bus ride from there to Amritsar, we had finally reached the Punjabi city of the Golden Temple. I only had a few hours here before my train left for Mumbai, so we made it count by walking around the Golden Temple complex and also eating there, after Nuria had put her stuff in the guest house across the street. The Golden Temple provides free accommodation for Sikh pilgrims and others, as well as meals in the temple area, all donation-based. Nuria and I were surprised to see Teo, a Tushita-er from England, also staying in the accommodation common area. He was also catching my train in the evening, but getting off at Delhi. I guess running into fellow mediation students was a phenomenon that extended well outside the area of Dharamsala!<br /><br />After circumnavigating the shimmering temple, we headed to the kitchen area, recognizable by the loud clashing of metal trays. The process was very synchronized. Upon entering, we were handed a tray and a spoon and a bowl and were shuffled to the upstairs floor, basically a massive room the size of half a football field with burlap strips stretching across the length for sitting. The room filled with people in minutes and food runners immediately began their distribution system, scurrying from person to person, dumping a splash of food into one of the sections of the tray. The dinner included 2 chapati breads, rice, dal, veg curry, and water. If you wanted more food, all you needed was to lift a finger when the runner would pass. Snarfing down my food and the Nuria’s leftovers, my 15 minute dinner picked up its pace as I saw people were already leaving and water was being spread on the stone floor to sop up any mess. Just as I stood up, the floor squeegee ran past, cleaning my area for the next batch of people. Down the steps, we handed our trays to a chain of about 2 dozen men who handed dishes in succession to the cleaning area, where amongst deafening clanging, the metalware was cleaned by hundreds of hands. An energetic and smiley Sikh gave us a tour of the cooking area, where we glimpsed massive vats of dal, having the diameter of the width of an entire care, as well as chapatti machines, churning out a million flatbreads every day. The temple area feeds about 55,000 people daily this day, running entirely on donations. <br /><br />Nuria and I walked around the temple again as Teo showered to get ready for our train. As Nuria and I gave each other a hug goodbye, we were immediately swarmed with a few Sikh men shouting *NO, NO, NO, NOT ALLOWED!* No cross-gender displays of affection in this area. So, with a few words and a smile, we bid each other farewell. Soon after at the train station, Teo and I also said goodbye, as we’d be traveling in different train cars. <br /><br />The train ride to Mumbai would last 32 hours. The length of the trip came into focus when I told Dad in a phone conversation that I’d get there at 5:45 am not tomorrow but the day after. That’s a long time on a train! It surely isn’t as droning as a car ride though; on the Indian trains one has his own berth to stretch out on as well as bathrooms, corridors to stretch the legs in, and passing countryside views out the windows and doors that will entertain for hours.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-7159301474372435892010-08-27T18:53:00.000+05:302010-08-27T18:54:09.383+05:30Tushita Meditation RetreatMy one-night stay in McLeod Ganj was a great break from traveling, as well as an awesome sight. McLeod Ganj wraps around steep mountains and there are spectacular views all around. Despite its mountainous terrain, the area has many great places to eat as well bakeries and internet cafes etc. The population comes from all around, constituted of Indians, Tibetans, and many backpack-laden tourists. My guest house owner and I spent a good amount of time together, sharing Kashmiri tea and a homemade dinner of rice, dal, salad, and mixed veg curry over stories of beautiful places he would take tourists through Kashmir, as well as other places in India that he had owned guest houses. <br /><br />The next day I was eager to settle into the mediation center. Giving myself about an hour, I packed up all my bags and headed in the direction of Dharamkot, the town where Tushita is located. I had quite the setup going, my waterproof bag with my clothes on my back, my backpack around my shoulders but in my front, one hand under the backpack to support it from squishing my stomach, and the other hand holding the umbrella covering up everything over my head. Not knowing how far up the road Dharamkot was from McLeod Ganj, I kept at a slow but steady pace up the windy road. Up and up and up and up. That’s been the general direction of travel since leaving Delhi…always higher and higher and higher. No cars and traffic on this road to Dharamkot. Every once in a while a rickshaw would putter past, slow going up this slope. To my left was a steep slope up; to my right, a steep slope down…“steep” meaning anything from a quickly rolling hill to a drop-off extending about 50 feet down. And trees all around, as well as mist.<br /><br />Tushita was clearly marked by a sign once I had reached the first shops of Dharamkot. Check-in included us deciding what kind of room we wanted, paying, locking our electronics in a safe, getting the room key, and getting our “karma yoga” job. Room: 4-person as opposed to 8-person dormitory style; payment: 5500 rs. (about 12 dollars a day); karma yoga job: operating the recording/sound equipment during mediations and lectures. I was pleased at this random selection, we all had a job to keep things running, I much preferred turning on and off the sound system as opposed to dish-washing and toilet-cleaning. After moving in and a tea break, we had a practicality meeting about keeping silence, refraining from drugs, sex, and leaving the center’s grounds etc, how to treat the monkeys everywhere, and how to use the laundry service. <br /><br />From my first moments at Tushita, I was captivated; quite difficult to wipe the smile off my face for the first day or so. The area as a few dorms and bathroom houses, a dining hall and kitchen, above which is a small meditation hall, patios overlooking the mountains, a main gompa (mediation hall) and offices, another retreat building, and a stupa (holy pyramid-wedding cake-like structure symbolizing the enlightened mind of the Buddha). The main gompa was where we spent most of our time; on the wooden floors we each had a mat, a few cushions to sit on, and a small table to keep our books and notebooks. At the front sat a massive golden statue of someone meditating, other auspicious objects like statues and lights and offering bowls, and pictures of prominent lamas. <br /><br />Just about every day it would rain, although not incredibly hard. Because of how high up we were, clouds frequently would envelop the area. When this happened (sometimes for entire days at a time), Everything would be misty and the view that normally displayed vast mountains and rolling flatlands in the distance would be opaque white. You would see a few trees near you growing on the steep slope downward, but past them, just thick white. “Tushita” means heaven; sometimes it certainly felt that way, with clouds all around it was as if we were in the sky. Sometimes the clouds would be so thick that I remember my first day I was having a conversation with someone from Holland outside, and I literally noticed the mist drifting between us. <br /><br />There were about 40 of us, ranging in age from about 22 to maybe 40s; a few were much older too. We came from all around including the US, Holland, England, Ireland, Austria, India, Australia, Spain, China, and Switzerland to name a few. Few people I met had a strict plan in place; most were staying in the Dharamsala area for weeks without having a definite idea of when they’d leave. Buses to many areas leave regularly, no need to book in advance, the area affords itself the ability to assume a fluid schedule. Not many had too much experience with Buddhism, although a handful had participated in retreats before, such as the intensive 10-day Vipassana retreat (9 hours of mediation daily, with strict silence). This course was a nice combination of the mediation and contemplative silence with discussion and a relaxed atmosphere. Perhaps total silence or the intensive all day mediation would have been too much for a beginner like me, so a perfect balance was struck for my introduction into things. Silence was to be observed outside the gompa (in the dorms, walking around, in the dining area), especially to protect the concentration and atmosphere for the 3-month retreat running at the same time. This retreat was a special tantric purifying retreat that is reserved for experienced individuals, and it would have been a distraction to have chatter in the background outside. However, during lectures we were free to ask questions (I certainly had a few!) and have personal convsersations with the teachers; additionally daily we had an hour long discussion group of about 7 people, where we would compare and contrast ideas and responses we had from the lecture. <br /><br />The daily schedule ran like this. At 6 am there would be the ring of a gong to wake up, then at 6:35 there would another ring indicating that the first mediation would start in 10 minutes. Our mediation sessions would last 45 minutes and would be followed by a 15-or so minute break. Mediation sessions were guided by Richard from Holland. Richard was grown and very tall but had a boyish face. He would speak quietly but not seriously. His choice of words was slow and deliberate, as if carefully chosen. This probably was the case not only because of his contemplative nature but also because of a limited handle on English. The atmosphere of mediation sessions was deep and thought-provoking, but always lighthearted somehow; Richard would usually let out a giggle or two at us after we were finished, and would make jokes here and there that eventually had us erupting in laughter toward the end once we had figured out his subtle humor. I spent a good deal of time laughing internally as well during meditation sessions. With Richard’s Holland accent, every time he said “others” it sounded as if he was saying “otters.” “We are only here because of otters. Think, all the food you eat, the clothes you wear, comes from otters. Without otters…we would not be able to exist, if even for one day. When we look inside, we can actually find no self, only otters. May we continually cultivate loving-kindness…and everlasting compassion…for otters.” An otter pops up in my visualization, turns its head to look at me, and smiles as if to say… “you know, he’s right.”<br /><br />After mediation from 6:45 to 7:30, therewas breakfast. Breakfast usually consisted of a vat of rice, wheat, or oat-based porridge, bananas, rolls, hard-boiled eggs, butter, honey, and homemade peanut butter. Yummm. Boy did my appetite return quickly. On antibiotics for the first half, I was feeling back to normal in no time too. After breakfast was a 2-hour lecture (w/ a break) led by Jimmy. Jimmy is in his mid-60s and is from the US. He spent much of his time traveling though and has lived in India for quite some time. His relationship with Buddhism is extensive, and he had been an ordained monk for 15 years. Despite his handle of the dharma (Buddhist teachings), the atmosphere of his lectures was never oppressive. He would often tell funny stories that his teachers and other lamas had said or been involved in. Many times he referenced his crazier past, which included all kinds of wild stories and interesting characters, usually prompting a loud, ruckus, belly laugher from the group . If you have a conversation with him, it feels as if you’re in the atmosphere of a bar. Jimmy has recently been suffering from liver/digestion issues; you could tell he was fatigued, sometimes pausing after a sentence with his eyes closed for a second or two before continuing. <br /><br />After lecture on the dharma as an hour-long yoga session with Richard; we would do some simple stretching and gentle postures, most of which could be done right from the meditation mat. The 2 sunny days we had, yoga was held on the roof. Richard’s lightheartedness combined with our stumbling on a few balance postures meant a good deal of giggles from everyone involved. It’s funny how I mention laughter so often; it certainly doesn’t feel like we were laughing all the time, as silence was kept outside. My memories are calm and contemplative, having a good deal of time to think during meals and during personal time, time that we usually fill with conversation. After yoga was lunch, the largest meal of the day, consisting of a vat of rice, a vat of dal, a vat of mixed vegetables, cucumber/tomato salad, sometimes paneer, sometimes other dishes too. I usually took a nap after lunch, no need to set an alarm, the gong-ringers were prompt with their soothing strikes 10 minutes before every session. <br /><br /> From 2-3 was our discussion group. I think people in my group were mostly my age, 2 from the US, 2 from England, one from Ireland, one from Israel. We’d bring up questions or issues we took with the teachings, as well as point of agreement, referencing our past personal experiences. It was a great space to articulate our responses to the dharma, as well as get some perspective on how others were taking the teachings. From our group as a whole, you had a wide range of responses including skepticism to the teachings and anger at the difficulties and pains of mediation to complete captivation and even tears during some sessions. Most fell somewhere in the middle. For half an hour after discussion was a tea-break (always hard to return to silence after our group’s conversation), which was then followed by another lecture time where we’d hash out with Jimmy a few of our groups issues. After a break and a mediation session with Richard on the days topics, it was dinner time. Dinner was always a large vat of seaming soup and a large warm basket of rolls (fully accompanied by the butter, honey, and delicious peanut butter). The soup sometimes had beans, sometimes noodles, sometimes other vegetables. One time we had pumpkin soup; another, tomato. My appetite was completely restored compared to the sickly previous week; every meal at Tushita I would load up a whole plate and usually go back for seconds. Especially for that peanut butter and homemade bread.<br /><br />After dinner was a final meditation session with Richard, usually my favorite one, mostly because there was no upcoming meal to distract me, but also because sitting throughout the day meant I was sufficiently stretched out to tolerate my half-lotus posture. Or maybe I was calmed enough to direct my mind away from discomfort. If pain in the knee or back got too distracting, it was no problem to adjust the seating position, although I would stay in half-lotus as long as possible (usually the whole session) to maintain concentration. After the mediation, I would stay in the gompa to read before heading to bed. Evidently I was interested in the dharma enough to read a great deal; by the end of the 10 days I had burned through 4 books.<br /><br />My favorite book I read was one I bought at Tushita’s library, called The Universe in a Single Atom by the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama discusses a great deal how collaboration between science and Buddhism has and will lead to extremely beneficial advancements in how we conceptualize and understand the mind and reality around us. His developed, but easily understood language goes through the epistemological differences of science and Buddhism (1st person account and experiences versus 3rd person experiments and objective intellectual concepts), but also the empirical similarities between the two; both are rooted in observable phenomena and bounded by the laws of cause and effect. The book resonated with me because it articulated my feelings of how the dharma compliments neuroscientific and physics advancements. One question that comes up in neuroscience is even if we knew all there was to know about the brain from a 3rd person perspective (all the neuronal workings and correlates of consciousness), would we know what there was to know about the mind? Would we be able to know the experience of what it was like to be a bat for instance if we knew all there was to know about the bat’s brain? Conceptually, it doesn’t seem like it. Developing the mind and getting to know the workings of the mind from an objective standpoint are priorities of the Buddhist Dharma. This subjective component to the mind/brain relationship is a piece of the puzzle that is sorely needed if we are to have a comprehensive understanding of the two. It seems that where science leaves off, meditation practices and Buddhist philosophy pick up, and vice versa. Additionally, with the introduction (or rather, complications) of quantum physics into scientific thought, questions arise as to the objectifiability of experimentation. Namely, we are becoming more and more aware of how the observation is as much a part of the observer as of what is observed. For instance, a photon or electron behaves at times like a wave, at times like a particle, it all depends on how it is observed. As the role of consciousness and challenges to objective measurements step forward in importance, again Buddhist thought has a great deal of useful perspective to comment on how we understand the world around us.<br /><br />Our teachings outlined the basics of the dharma, the principle ideas being that suffering is caused by attachment and aversion to the outside world, but that everything is impermanent, relative, and empty. Emptiness is the claim that nothing exists inherently “from its own side,” that it is not independent from its own originations, its causes and conditions. Similarly, when we try to conceptualize or articulate a ‘self’ what arises are factors dependent on others and influences around us. Additionally, everyone is in the pursuit of happiness, and we should strive to cultivate endless compassion for all sentient beings. Other teachings like that of karma, rebirth, and timeless mind I had more difficulty grasping, but as the analogy goes, don’t eat the whole pizza in one sitting, you’ll throw it up. Take one piece at a time. There were plenty of teachings that really resonated with me and plenty of ideas to chew on for some time to come. <br /><br />Tenzin Palmo also came to give a talk on our last day. Tenzin Palmo is a Buddhist nun who was one of the first female Westerners to be ordained. She was born in London in 1943, and after ordination spent 12 years in meditative retreat in a high-altitude cave. She is highly regarded in Buddhism and is pushing for the first motions of equal gender treatment in the Buddhist system (for instance, it is thought that women cannot reach enlightenment). Her lecture was on getting to know the mind. A few of her thoughtful analogies included the idea that the mind was the sky and thoughts are the clouds. Our mind, our pure awareness and consciousness, is easily covered by the clouds, but our mind is not the clouds. Similarly, our bodies are not our clothes. Fundamentally we are always naked, but it doesn’t seem that way because we cover up. The problem is when we identify ourselves with these thoughts, when we think that the sky is the clouds that cover it or that we are our clothes. Thoughts in reality are like bubbles, they are shiny and eye-catching, but if you look closely they are hollow and easily pop. In meditation, it was easy to see how this analogy relates to my thoughts, constantly surfacing and then receding, like bubbles popping. It takes some time and concentration to see past neuronal habits.<br /><br />The monkeys at Tushita were quite a sight. They were everywhere and had no fear of you until you acted as if you would hit them. I guess they were used to having people around. They’d get into massive fights and shriek at each other sometimes, getting the dogs barking as well, and offering a challenge to some meditation sessions. They’d come right up and take your food too. One time I went outside to sit down outside with my dinner and enjoy the view, I had my warm roll all buttered with honey and peanut butter. As I glimpsed at a few monkeys in the corner of my eye, another came out of nowhere, maybe from a tree above and snatched my roll, practically turning the bowl of soup over onto me in the process. Another time during yoga on the roof, one stole someone’s bag of socks. Richard said “not to worry, they have tiny feet, your socks won’t fit. At some point, the bag will fall down from the trees, just keep an eye out.” Another yoga session one got a hold of a tea cup, and it soon shattered on the ground two stories below. Richard, calm as usual, “Oh, Tushita has one less tea cup. Lesson in impermanence.”<br /><br />It’s funny how by the end of our 10 days together, I had the feeling that I knew all the students or that we were friends somehow, although I had only spoken with a few of them in discussion group. The last day it was nice to have some conversations with people, as well as get to know their names. Many people are staying in the area for some time, especially because the Dalai Lama is teaching for two days soon. My favorite quote from the Dalai Lama that we learned about in lecture was “If you can’t do anything about a problem, why worry? If you can do something about it, why worry?” I guess if you can change something then good and if you can’t, you can’t and there’s no need to worry about control over it. His teachings are very moving, I am going to see if my schedule will allow me to hear his lecture. <br /><br />Our last day we all decided to meet for dinner at a restaurant called “Common Ground,” advocating for peaceful Tibetan-Chinese relations. Over great food and awesome company who I felt connected to but who I was finally getting to know on a conversational level, our dinner lasted a good 5 hours. That evening I stayed at an awesome place in Dharamkot, a town near McLeod Ganj. Tushita was so closeby, I figured it would be a perfect place to stay, and it’s much less crowded and noisy than McLeod Ganj. The room is only rs. 100, or about 2 dollars, and above on the second floor is a great restaurant with cushion floor seats and low tables. Both the patio of the room and the lookout of the restaurant have a spectacular view of massive mountain hillsides descending into a distant valley. Houses and temples scatter the nearby area, trickling out in density to nothing as the mountains ascend higher and higher. <br /><br />The next morning I woke up at 6 am right as usual. After writing a bit, I headed out on the thin windy roads of Dharamkot to find an internet café to talk to the parents and to check the emails. I stopped back again at Tushita for a quick yoga class and to say goodbye to Richard, then hopped over to my place for a tasty veg thali for lunch. While I was there I also picked up a few clothes that I had given the day before to the guest house owner’s “auntie” a few houses away. After only a few weeks in India, already my pants had a few tears in them at the more worn parts. One of my collared shirts also had a massive rip down the back, from the neck all the way to the bottom, no idea how it got there. Perhaps the weight of the bags? Anyway, everything was patched up good as new, stitched heavily and reinforced with extra cloth for support when I picked them up. <br /><br />Then in the afternoon I headed to McLeod Ganj to run some errands, including figuring out the bus timings to Amritsar, as well as visiting a Tibetan doctor for a check-up. I’ve heard sometimes they will give you some Tibetan medicine to maintain your health or to treat internal organ issues that they can detect by your pulse and a urine sample. Don’t be fooled, this stuff is really supposed to work. Jimmy is using Tibetan medicine for his liver treatment and claims that there are limited treatments for the liver in the West aside from a transplant. Tibetan medicine is strong for liver and kidney evidently. Anyway, I stepped inside, the energetic Tibetan woman doctor checked my pulse and asked a few quick questions. *Very good! No non-veg foods and no eggs. Also only cooked food. A little weak but you are fine.* “Oh good, thank you. Do you need a urine sample or something?” *No, not unless you are ill, you are in good heath.* She was right. I was. My urge to consume Tibetan culture and customs shrugged its shoulders. I giggled; of course I didn’t need any medicine, I was fine. <br /><br />Anyway, I got some passport photos and a radio receiver for the Dalai Lama’s lectures at his temple the next day (it is delivered in Tibetan, and a translator transmits it in English over the radio), and waited in line to register to attend the lectures at his security office. The line was lengthy, about an hour wait, but I’ve heard it can be much longer! Filling out a form, and handing over ten rupees, the passport for a quick check, and two passport photos, I had my registration for tomorrow’s teachings. Most everyone from Tushita is going, should be quite the experience, of course I may not get a seat in order to see him, evidently his teachings are packed. While waiting in line for registration I spotted a sign for an afternoon yoga class and stopped by. Their afternoon Hatha yoga class was just starting. It was a great two hour class, and only for rs.200, just what I needed. The class actually was the conclusion of a month-long certification course, and the students were westerners, relieved that finally they had finished their 200 hours of training. This evening I’ll meet Tushita people again for dinner, then tomorrow the plan is operation Dalai Lama. What an awesome place this is :)Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-49259843421205573572010-08-16T19:13:00.000+05:302010-08-16T19:14:57.445+05:30Varanasi, Gaya, Bodhgaya, and McLeod GanjThe next morning was, again, an early one. Not sure if it was the heat or the time adjustment or the excitement, but I woke up at about 3:30 and was out of bed at 4:50 to see if I could find a boat to take me down the Ganges to see the activity on the ghats coming to life. Lonely Planet recommends early morning for a boat tour because it’s cool and—even so early—there is a lot to see. Right outside of the hotel there were about half a dozen boatmen waiting for tourists. Haggling the price down was tough, but I managed to get the fee down from rs. 400 to rs. 300. One boatman steered and the other rowed; at times we were stagnant because of the current. Seeing the ghats from the river was a great experience, especially to get a sense of how many there are and what goes on on them. My favorite sights were some large elderly maharaja palaces. Also of note is the electric crematorium. Vanranasi is considered a very holy place to die and to be cremated. The richer are burned with fire on the ghats; the poorer go to the electric factory-like location. <br /><br />Back at the hotel I peeked my head into the room to check if Melissa was sleeping. She has been having a difficult getting sufficient rest; being exhausted yet unable to sleep because of the heat is a poor combination. Glad to see she was snoozing (I guess it was still very early) I headed off into the winding streets of the old city. <br /><br />I came across the “Brown Bread Bakery” again that we almost ate at the night before. Their muesli with banana, milk, and honey was a tasty breakfast; it was a fun restaurant with cushions on the floor for seating. A relaxed atmosphere which, coupled with the bakery-like items on the menu, was obviously a hotspot for tourists. Stepping out of the bakery I found my eyes caught by colorful strings in a street-side shop. The red and yellow color was easily recognizable as a Hindu emblem worn around the wrist and signifying good luck. Many people wear them and usually they are tied on by a guru or other holy man. Figuring it was time for new wrist wear, I allowed the store owner to cut the loose red string around my wrist—having until that point in time been on my wrist for 2 years—and replace it with a new red-yellow one. The pieces of the old one I released into the Ganges later that day. The new one has been working out ok, although the dye is getting all over my clothes. Perhaps it won’t be as bad later on when the string’s vibrant colors fade. Or maybe it will keep staining my cuffs and sides with more and more red and yellow.<br /><br />Continuing to wander the streets, I found myself at the main cremation ghat, a few ghats up from Meer ghat where we were staying. I sat on a small wall and got talking with a kid and his brother. We had some lemon chai—less tasty then it sounds, I’m more used to milk chai. The brother spoke good English, although had only learned from having practiced with foreigners. He also helped me practice Hindi. I enjoyed his company; I could tell in some way that he was more interested in a few conversations and sharing information than adopting the wide-eyed, overbearing and overwhelming I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND demeanor that many others do, especially the ones that maybe want to form a good relationship so that money can be part of the equation. I forget the brother’s name. We talked for some time and he offered to show me around the places where they burn the bodies. This is something that Lonely Planet makes out to be a tourist objective, and many people visit to see, although I’m sure you can imagine it was a strange feeling for me to be taking in sights as a tourist which must be emotional and significant for the members of the dead’s family. I asked the brother what people thought of tourists coming here a few different times, each time he suggested that it was no big deal, that people didn’t mind having people come to observe. The air was dense with the smell of smoke. We stopped at the place where several people shoved ashes into the Ganges; the black ashes covered the entire side of a dozen-step ghat. On the ghat platform itself were about 3 or 4 spaces for burnings. They would stack wood up about to waist-level (the most expensive being sandal wood) to construct the pyre. The body would be wrapped in shiny silver and gold lining and dipped in the Ganges before being burned. We also visited the adjacent home where many old would come to live out their final days. Remember dying in Varanasi grants moksha, or the freeing of the birth and death cycle. After visiting the site where the wood was cut and weighed, I bid the brother farewell and thanked him for his time. I offered him rs. 100 for his time, which he took without having the expectation for it yet without having the surprise of it. Our whole interaction that day was educative yet soothing.<br /><br />Back at the hotel Melissa was reading in bed. We had been thinking about going to a yoga class. The day before I visited a nearby studio but didn’t take a class because the off-season classes were halted and the private sessions were too expensive. I was thankful for the hour-long conversation I had with the yogi though instead. He explained about his life doing yoga as a child here and there, then joining the army in Hyderabad, then getting a degree in Psychology, then eventually running the yoga studio. His animated behavior was punctuated with eruptions of laughter. The other studio that Melissa and I had in mind though we didn’t make it to. She wasn’t sure if she was up to it and in any case we needed to check out of the hotel lest we be charged with another day. Packing up all our stuff ran well into the yoga session, so I just did some small exercises in our room. I had been accustomed to running etc at home about every other day; the same kind of exercise is more difficult to set aside time for here! <br /><br />In the afternoon we enjoyed the central patio views over lemon juice and sparkling water, which also tastes good with a few shakes of salt in it actually. Quite a treat. A new taste yet quenching. I haven’t been eating very much—the appetite is very low still—yet somehow I had the strongest craving for this lemon drink. For lunch we headed to the Brown Bread Bakery. Remember the huge menu? Thai, Chinese, Continental, international Cheeses and breads, Indian, etc etc etc. Melissa tried the palak paneer. Unimpressive. I tested out the Thai green curry. How out of line my expectations were with the actual product was comical. The brown sludge smelled like the interior of an old dusty piano. The taste was worse. It reminded me of the smell wafting about in urine-laden toilet rooms. After a few bites, I was finished. No problem wasting this food. I settled with the white rice with ketchup drizzled over top, an unexpected lunch to be sure. Again, first impressions are only part of the picture. Just as a book cannot be judged by the cover, neither can a restaurant be judged by the impressiveness of the menu. <br /><br />Back at the hotel, Melissa and I had some more lemon drink. I could have ordered food but wasn’t hungry. With a few hours left before we needed to make it to the station for our next train, I decided again to wander. Hopefully I would locate a place where I could look into why my Vodafone connection was not working. Melissa had been using the phone at the hotel to arrange plans with her family when the line cut out. It refused to receive reception after that. A sitar shop owner told me that to rearrange the plan I would need to visit a place far away, so I spent about half an hour or so soaking in the hustle of the main road before heading back to the hotel. Simply standing in one place and observing everything around you in a situation like that can entertain for hours. On the way back to the hotel while walking along the ghats I ran into the massagers that I had been introduced to yesterday. Yesterday after having initially arrived in Varanasi a boy invited me to his shop. Refusing like usual, the boy reached his hand out to shake goodbye. As our hands met in a flash he grabbed my hand and pressed his thumbs into my palm. Stunned but intrigued, I didn’t pull my hand back. In a few seconds he was squeezing up and down my arm in alternating clockwise and counterclockwise directions with the thumb and fingers. I was sold. Yes, take me away to wherever it is you give massages. Right here atop a burlap blanket on a wide step of the ghats? Ok. Up and down my arms and legs he and another went. As well as the back and the shoulders. Oh OH and the feet. That was my favorite. Toward the end I sat up and…how did this work…I sat and he had his chins to my back and he grabbed my arms in front of me and pulled back. And then to each side. A ripple of cracks ran up my whole spine each time. The mentality was always *don’t worry about the money* until the end when they asked for rs. 300each. While being messaged it’s hard to haggle. When on my feet after some time I negotiated down to rs. 50 each, which probably was still too high. I felt it was worth it though. Oh my, what a sensation. I was happy to have another that afternoon on my way back to the hotel.<br /><br />I had booked the train to Gaya from Varanasi in the sleeper class because it wasn’t overnight. We had always traveled sleeper when traveling in Hyderabad 2 years ago. You still get beds and all, just not a/c and no sheets. With Melissa drained from the constant heat over the past 7 months in South Asia (the most hot of which being the entirety of the last 4 months, right throughout the summer), I negotiated to have us relocated to a/c class for an upgrade charge. Good move. I also slept the whole 5 hours to Gaya.<br /><br />Gaya is a city that is usually only visited by foreigners and tourists as a jumping off point to Bodhgaya, the location of Buddha’s enlightenment. Because the train got in after dark, we decided to stay at a hotel across from the station in Gaya and head to Bodhgaya the next day. The room had everything we needed, but had a dark feeling to it. My whole memory of Gaya seems to be steeped in this dark shadowy hue. Gaya is located in Bihar, the poorest state of India. It’s a good idea to play it safe traveling through this state, although crime used to be a whole lot worse a few years ago than it is now. The government is really stepping up things like education throughout the state from what I hear; I believe it, Melissa saw so many schools and school children running about the next day. <br /><br />With no check-out time, we decided to explore around Gaya a bit; the guide book spoke of a mountain in the southern part of town with great views; also Buddha preached his “fire sermon” here. I thought we could walk there, so on the way we stopped at a local eatery for some rice and daal and mixed veg curry. We also stopped at one of the many sweet shops; I spotted a milk-pistachio fluffy white sweet that I liked, Kalakan. Getting sufficiently lost, we hired a rickshaw driver to take us to the mountain. I don’t know why I thought I could navigate there, it would have taken all day. Realizing how much the richshaw wallah had to exert himself to transport us both there, I paid rs. 50 instead of our agreed price of rs. 30, a bonus that lit his face up. I didn’t mind the children beggars that followed us up the mountain. Melissa had had enough of the begging throughout her time in South Asia. I bet that in a few months’ time, I will be similarly intolerant of it. Shooing them away, there was nothing to be concerned about at the top aside from the 2 temple dwellers that asked for a donation. The view was indeed splendid. Gaya is huge and wound around as far as you could see in one direction, rice paddies extending in the other direction. The city did look like it was falling apart though somewhat. The crumbling brick walls were visible from the mountain, just as the half-finished roads and mud were noticeable while actually toiling about in it. <br /><br /> By the time we reached the base of the mountain, it had cooled quite a bit and became windy. It was such a nice break, but we knew a big rain was on its way. Being on the outskirts of town meant few autos, but we felt like searching for one rather than hire a cycle rickshaw. As the rains started, a diesel tank truck pulled up beside us, the driver and his friend poking his head out of the window to ask us where we were headed. He offered to take us to the train station (across from which was our hotel), he was headed to the station anyway to drop off the diesel for the trains. Eyeing Melissa a few times, we agreed with each other that the risk was acceptable and hopped in, me smooshing beside the two men and Melissa by the window to avoid any funny business. The rains poured and poured. How grateful we were not to be sludging about in the mud and puddles below us. We didn’t recognize the way the truck was taking (although of course we didn’t know the city), and were slightly fearful that we may have to resort to hopping out in the rain if things got too suspicious. We questioned his direction but he assured us he was going a back way to the station and not to worry about it. Out of nowhere our hotel popped up in front of us. I dug into my wallet for some compensation for the driver; he smiled, waved his hand and nodded his head, a claim that money was not necessary. With a return smile and a “thank you” our diesel truck was off and Melissa and I headed into the hotel to pack our things.<br /><br />Bodhgaya is about 12 km away from Gaya. Annoying jarring speed bumps made me choose to hold my backpack on my lap for fear of the laptop inside breaking from the hard metal floor of the auto. The scenery was nice, more amiable than the crowded and noisy streets of Gaya. Gaya had the loudest horns I’ve ever heard. And they lay on the horns for many seconds at a time, in an auto it can be deafening. Many times I had to cover my ears. Especially during that time that the bike behind us blared his horn at us for about half a minute while waiting at a stop light simply because he saw that we were covering our ears. I suppose an adolescent having a little fun has turned out with worse outcomes before. Whatever, I could have been more upset, it was just dumb. <br /><br />Dazed by the passing forests and countryside in the auto, something strange suddenly caught my eye up ahead. Focusing as I looked forward, in a split second I realized a cow was on its side sliding at high speed in front of a bus, heading in our direction. As we veered off the road, I braced myself for an ugly sight and my face cringed, eyebrows tensing. How the cow became propelled in front of the bus is a mystery, perhaps it was hit and thrust forward. The bus decelerated at about the same rate as the cow did, so it never went under. At the high speeds though, the cow slipped about as if it were on ice and slid at least 40 yards or so. The bus stopped and the cow got up and walked past us without a grunt, its friend catching up close behind. That was the second bus-cow incident Melissa had witnessed. The previous on a few weeks before ended up much worse, the victim ending up with a bloody horn and a limp. <br /><br />We had hoped to stay at one of the monasteries (each dedicated to a different country, and made in the image of that country) in Bodhgaya, although the guest houses in all were being renovated. An energetic thin Indian, Sudhir, about my age found us and started talking about his family’s guest house as soon as we stepped out of the rickshaw. After investigating a few other options, we decided that his guest house was a great deal for the price and took him up on the offer. Sudhir drove us and our luggage to the guest house. That evening after settling in Melissa and I walked about the town and ran into Sudhir again, just as energetic as before he started talking about all the places we could go in town to see the tourist sites or to use the internet etc. Melissa went to an internet café and I went to a local phone shop to see what I could do about a new sim card for the phone; the Vodafone card was still without reception. The AirCel chip had the lowest rates I’ve seen for international calling to the US at rs. 1.5 a minute, about 4 cents. Loads less than the 3 dollars or whatever with my AT&T phone. The card required not only my passport and visa photocopy and passport photo but also a local’s id. I’m still puzzled why this is. A local reference? But what if I didn’t have a reference? Sudhir was more than willing to photocopy his passport, jumping in the opportunity to help. <br /><br />That evening the three of us went to a local restaurant with Tibetan specialties. What we ordered was ok but the soup I’m pretty sure gave me quite the bout with diarrhea that night. After Sudhir left to go home, a talkative schoolboy fired some questions at us, followed by a computer science college student talking to us for a good half hour about this schooling and studies. <br /><br />That night: diarrhea diarrhea diarrhea. Not much sleep. Melissa wasn’t feeling too well either. Darn Tibetan soup. Still without having recovered my appetite from many days before, I was mostly living off of rehydration salts. That morning Melissa and I went to a nearby café with wireless internet access where I was able to post my last blog entry. Also got some porridge. Sudhir dropped by and was anxious to take us through the sites of Bodhgaya.<br /><br />Although he rattled off mountains we could visit and….something else I can’t remember…and a lesson with a Buddhist guru, Melissa and I really only had the time and energy for the main sites of the tree under which Buddha achieved enlightenment, the nearby temple, and exploring the monasteries. Well, the original tree was uprooted by a ruler bent on ridding the area of Buddhism, but a sapling from it was stolen and cultivated further in Sri Lanka. The relative tree was replanted in the spot of enlightenment and is now about 2 millennia old, about a dozen steel pillars supporting its massive and lengthy branches. A few dozen people were meditating under it. I sat under the tree too. What did I think about? My seventh grade history class. We learned about Buddha’s enlightenment then, and the Bodhi tree. I found it such a cool kind of thing then, the story of the enlightenment being tied to a tree under which it happened. Reminiscent of Newton and his apple. Revolutionary event occurring in a simple space connected to nature. And now 9 years after seventh grade, I was here.<br /><br />We walked around the area and made our way to a massive 60 foot high Buddha state and the monasteries. A salesman outside of one offered for me to listen to his prized largest hand-crafted singing bowl. The sound was so deep and relaxing. Making you still. The deep pitch, about as low as you can hum, had an overtone pitch floating softly above it, exactly a fifth (+octaves) higher. The result: still music that could make anyone pause in peace for at least a moment. I hadn’t the space to lug around something like that. Curious, I asked the price anyway. A whopping 400 Euros. <br /><br />From five to six in the afternoon Melissa and I attended a meditation session at the Japanese monastery. Maybe 2 dozen people sat in the open-aired and high-ceilinged room with a large Buddha statue, murals, dangling gold plates, and other beautifications at the front. The smell of incense filled the air. Our monk slowly rang a large gong a few times, beat a large drum once or twice, and chanted in a sustained low tone for about 20 minutes. The remainder of the hour was held in silence. I was able to have my legs in lotus position for the majority of the time. Just as I readjusted to half lotus due to pain, the session was over. Calm and spaced out, we were driven back to the guest house by Sudhir to collect our bags. Sudhir arranged an auto for us to take us back to Gaya. I gave him about 5 dollars in rupees for all of his enthusiastic help and guidance. Despite all his time, he never mentioned about us paying him, even at the end. I doubt it if he would have brought it up. He was appreciative and accepted it graciously. <br /><br />And again we were back in Gaya. I liked Gaya. Somehow. It was dirty and chaotic and LOUD LOUD LOUD. And dark. And the smell made my stomach turn a little. But somehow it was nice, like I was forging a frontier or facing discomfort head on or managing something unmanageable. I guess that means I appreciated it for reasons that had to do with me in the place, not for the place itself. Sharing a final meal and lemon-salt fizz water together, Melissa and I reminisced over the past week, sweat dampening our clothes and the jingles of obnoxiousness echoing from outside. <br /><br />Melissa wasn’t surprised to see that her train was delayed, that specific one was notorious for it. We used it to get to Gaya and it was only 10 minutes late, but the time before that Melissa used it 2 years ago and it was delayed 7 hours. It was only delayed 10 minutes at a time, so we didn’t really know how long it would amount to. I was fearful of the station. People were everywhere, most of them just staring at us. Very little English was understood. I fidgeted constantly as every other second I would feel another bug on my skin or crawling in my hair. Once for a few seconds, the power went out and nothing could be seen. I kept bags close by. All the while we continued to retell events from the past week, giggling at strange bargaining situations and remembering old Hyderabad study abroad friends. After an hour, Melissa’s train to Calcutta was still absent and mine showed up to whisk me away to Delhi (the express train got you there in under 12 hours, an impressive feat for the distance travelled). I knew she would be fine being there alone. She would take it like she takes most things, level-headed and calmly. With a hug goodbye, we parted. I hope her train was not delayed 7 hours into the night. <br /><br />Serious diarrhea followed me throughout the night on the train to Delhi. As we pulled into the station at 11 am, I was geared up with my bags (one in front and one in back) and jug of orange rehydration salt-elixir in one hand and jug of regular water in the other. Again, without an appetite, the rehydration salts were my best friend, lest I have much less energy than I did. Slightly weak, I embarked to find a place to keep my bags for the day before I caught my train in the evening to head up farther north. <br /><br />New Delhi train station has 16 platforms. That is a long distance. Going to one end, I was disgruntled to figure out that luggage storage was on the other side. After finally getting to the cloak check, the line was huge and I rethought my plan. Perhaps there would be a cloak check at the station I had to be at that evening, Anand Vihar in east Delhi. I’d rather have my bags there waiting for me than have to contend with the commotion of New Delhi station in the evening again, possibly making me late. To try to figure out the best way to get to Anand Vihar, I tried my luck at the enquiry booths, each one having a crowd of about 60 people contending for the booth operator’s attention. Standing off to the side, I realized the inefficiency of the whole mess. Everyone was shouting and pushing in the humid, sweaty outside area. The booth operators sat calmly with slight frowns on their faces in swivel chairs behind computers in a/c, protected from the bustle outside by thick glass. It seemed that every once in a while she would look up at someone and half listen. Taking a few seconds to…think? she would maybe whisper some response. Every once in a while she’d talk into the microphone so people could hear outside. No one was angry, just pushing for the front of the line. I fumed. Ticket salesmen operate the same way. It takes forever. <br /><br />After asking a few people I figured that that Anand Vihar was accessible via the metro system. Shoulders aching, I slowly made it to the metro station nearby. While waiting in the lengthy security check line, I had to support myself against the wall and was out of breath under the weight of the bags, my shirt and pants drenched with sweat from the extra insulation in the already heavy humid heat. The a/c in the metro cars themselves were a blessing, I’m sure you can imagine. Yet still standing for the half hour or so to get to Anand Vihar was taxing. Anand Vihar metro station was spacious and looked new, as did the railway station I’d soon find out. As I stepped out of the metro station, I gladly handed over the bags to a rickshaw driver who took me to the station. Although it was visible and certainly within walking distance, I was caught at a good time for a nice sit. <br /><br />Although Anand Vihar station was new, there was no cloak room. Sitting for a few minutes with a crooked look of frustration on my face, I wondered if there were a hotel nearby where I could leave the bags. A taxi driver outside offered to take me to one after I negotiated the price down 4x less. The guest house he took me too would keep the bags for thousands of rupees. I guess the generosity of the guest houses I had stayed in before to hold onto bags was not consistent everywhere. Disgruntled, I decided it best to head the whole way back to New Delhi station to the cloak room that I knew was there rather than drive around looking for a place on the off-chance they would house them. Safely. The taxi driver demanded I pay him his original price back at the station. I gave him half and despite his protests walked away. <br /><br />Again with the long metro ride. And sweaty back-breaking walk to the New Delhi Station. I forgot which side the cloak room was on. I trudged through the crowd of people to platform 1 on the other side because someone on the metro claimed that was the correct side. Nope. Trudged back to platform 16. Cloak room. Ok. Made it. Oh, oops I’m on the return side of the cloak room. Ok walk around a few hundred feet to the other side. Fill out the form. Whew I can take the bags off. The cloak room man looked at the bags and shook his head, fingering the loose zippers. *No lock, no storage.* My heart sank. What the hell was I going to do with these f***ing bags. It was 3 pm, perhaps my best option was to go back to Anand Vihar and wait 6 hours for the train. After catching my breath and drying the sweat from my forehead, the cloak room man pointed to a vendor booth nearby and said *lock.* Perhaps that meant I could by locks. Yes, it did. Remarkably still disgruntled, I bought locks for the zippers (If you wanted the bag, you could take it anyway, it’s not stored in a safe, just placed on a shelf). Locks in place, the cloak room accepted the bags and finally after 4 hours of trudging around Delhi I was liberated. <br /><br />At nearby Connaught Place (CP—basically the city center of Delhi), I found a park located at the center of the three concentric circle roads that make up CP. I bought a raspberry-mango popsickle. Then a lemon one. And laid sprawled out on the grass. Ahh. <br /><br />Glancing through the guidebook to see what places to eat were nearby, I realized that all the Indian options (that I had always sought out and for which Delhi was prized) made me feel sick, perhaps my body saying ‘dammit stay away from that stuff, you’re pissing me off with this shit.’ I hope my appetite and taste for Indian food returns soon. A smile spread across my face when I read about a Ruby Tuesday’s nearby. Mmmm a burger and fries. Or maybe a salad. It was funny how I was definitely not hungry for some things (sickened by them actually), and yet hungry for another. It wasn’t food that mattered but the kind of food. A few seconds later I caught myself. I would never NEVER eat at a burger chain like Ruby Tuesday’s in the US. In fact, I seek out Indian at home. I’ve only been here in India a week and a half, and you’re in the Indian food capital of the world, and you want to go to….a Ruby Tuesday’s. And then I was like…well, yeah I do. I guess what you want is what you want, and I knew that I needed to eat after my lack of food for so long. <br /><br />I made my way in that direction. CP had all kinds of higher end a/c stores and clothing places etc with police guards in front ready to welcome you inside by pulling the all-glass door open for you. Yet outside—a dichotomy that falls in line with so many opposites existing side by side in India—was a tangled and dusty/muddy mess of concrete chunks, steel bars, deep holes in unexpected places and thin workers with dirt-stained and torn clothing. CP was under some kind of heavy construction. Kind of like Pahar Ganj was torn up too. Ruby Tuesday’s must have been too, as I couldn’t find it, but ducked into a Starbucks-like coffee shop for a cool mocha/vanilla ice cream latte. Yum. Then nearby I found Subway. That peaked my interest. Again, 2 weeks ago I would have kicked myself for going to a Subway for my last meal in Delhi. My appetite now guided me differently. I ordered one 6-inch sub, then another. And a diet coke. How rejuvenating. After eating I spotted 2 other foreigners and talked with them—study abroad students from France—for about an hour. Filled with energy, I headed back to the New Delhi Station to collect my bags, much more manageable after my rejuvenating day, and boarded the much less-crowded metro to Anand Vihar to catch the train waiting there for Chakki Bank. <br /><br />Chakki Bank is a station near Pathankot, a bus/train hub in the north, right below Jammu/Kashmir and right by Punjab and Pakistan. Today I after arriving at Chakki Bank, I caught an auto to Pathankot station where I waited an hour for the 5 hour train ride to Kangra (only rs. 16). The train serpentined through high mountains and across bridges that towered over massive river basins. From Kangra train station I caught a bus to Kangra bus station, then another bus to Dharamsala, then another bus to McLeod Ganj where I’m staying the evening in a guest house run by an energetic Kashmiri. McLeod Ganj is the seat of the Tibetan government in exile and is the residence of the Dalai Lama, as well as a backpacker hub. <br />As soon as I arrived the rains came and poured and poured. The steep hills of the area flooded with rushing water. The guest house owner claims such rain happens every day during the monsoon season. The climate is cool, with green and moss and trees everywhere all caught up in the mist of the clouds. You can’t see the bottom of the mountain where Dharamsala is from here, the clouds are too thick. Tomorrow I will go to Tushita Meditation Center to participate in a 10-day Buddhist philosophy/meditation course. This area looks like the perfect place for it.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-85624720089982537162010-08-14T11:43:00.000+05:302010-08-14T11:45:09.626+05:30KhajurahoThe second day in Khajuraho began very early. For whatever reason, my body didn’t want to sleep for a second night either I suppose. Perhaps I was excited. Springing to my feet at 5 am, and feeling much better (yet still without an appetite, which still has not returned fully as I write this several days later), I settled on going to explore an ashram a few kilometers away to see when their morning yoga class was. By the time I walked back though and additionally realized the high prices autos were asking for to go back to the ashram, Melissa and I just took the yoga class that our guest house offers every morning. Good time, different. Didn’t feel too stretched out and all like I usually do, perhaps because our teacher spent a good amount of time talking about the benefits of certain things like eating only veg, which causes *automatic digestion no problem*. Also there was that period of time at the end when we practiced ‘laughter’ yoga (how does one make himself laugh?) and did some dances to the painting of a god on the wall. <br /><br />As we stepped onto the main road just in front of the guest house, an 18 year old that we had met yesterday greeted us energetically. The ‘English’ name that he gives himself is Debit. He likes the sound of it. Debit and Melissa and I had a breakfast at a nearby place recommended by our guide book. Banana lassi and potato paratha (stuffed bread) with curd. Debit had been trying to get us to agree to let him show us around. It’s always difficult to figure these people out. Debit reminded me of Vijay from Ellora in many, many ways. Always talking about how many foreigners he’s become friends with, how he will alert us of people charging unfair or commission-laden prices, how he doesn’t care to ask for money because it’s not as important as meeting new people and treating foreigners fairly. I figured I’d take him up on his offer and see where it led us, confident that whatever the outcome, I would not pay anything much extra at the end. See this is the difficult thing to come to terms with: friendships like this are founded on flowery terms and built to look strong but all the same to some degree (and I never quite know to which degree) in some way expect a monetary reward. <br /><br />Debit, a friend of his who calls himself ‘Harry Potter’, Melissa, and me all rented bikes for the day to explore the area. Only the ‘western’ group of temples had an entrance fee (Indian: rs. 10; Foreigner: rs. 250), so there was a good deal to see riding around with no charge. Khajuraho is known for its erotic temple carvings and could be known as housing the kama sutra in stone. I was never quite sure why such racy images would be carved in holy temples, usually religious sites and practices steer away from such earthy pleasures. Some seem to say that these desires need to be satiated before any further enlightenment can take place, others say the carvings were the doings of one king with specific opinions, others have said it simply depicts daily life. In any case, I saw it as somewhat paradoxical.<br /><br />At the first group of temples we visited, Melissa thought it best for her to return back into town to rest because the heat and sun were so oppressive. The day proceeded with Harry and Debit showing me card tricks, showing me another temple area, directing me through a small town nearby, taking me to the top of a tall stone edifice to see the sunset, taking me to see their school, and taking me to see Debit’s home and family. We also spent a good amount of time eating lunch at a restaurant and swimming in an outdoor pool at a hotel (it took some courage for me to jump in; the water was opaque green and the sides and bottom slimy). I was happy to pay for our lunch, colas throughout the day, and the entrance fees for the pool; I was grateful for such a tour throughout the town. <br /><br />By the time we ran into Melissa again at the bike return booth, it was dark. She had rested, seen the western group of temples, and had talked with a local for a few hours. We concluded the day by visiting Debit’s uncle’s Kashmiri shop. It was filled with carved wooden boxes, colorful shawls, and intricate rugs. The owner offered us Kashmiri tea, really delicious with its accents of cinnamon and cardamom. We explained a few times to them that we were not interested in buying anything, but were very thankful for their hospitality. <br /><br />That evening at a restaurant Debit and Harry asked for a souvenir from the US. I handed over to each of them a silly band to wear on their wrist, claiming that they were very popular in the States. I also gave each of them a US dollar. They each looked remarkably non-plussed. During our final hour before Melissa and I left for the next train, our conversation consisted of Harry asking for ‘support’ in various ways, and phrasing himself again and again after I would reply with something like “No, I cannot offer you anything else. We have done many things today, I hope you have enjoyed our time too, but we will probably not see each other in the future, and I cannot support you more now nor later on. There are many people in India that I would like to help, but helping them all is an impossibility.” He would always find some way to not actually ask for money, but skirt around it in clever ways. Debit mostly didn’t say anything. I wasn’t fazed by the conversation, partly because I had learned in a way how to deal with it and also because I had expected it. <br /><br />That night on the train Melissa and I talked about the people we had met. She (after having been in South Asia for 7 consecutive months now) had simply become immediately skeptical of excited Indians coming up to her, even if they seemed friendly. Granted, not one of the dozens and dozens of people that would jump up to us while we were walking down the streets of Khajuraho seemed as excited to be ‘friends’ with us as they were for us to see their shop. *Hello friend! Where are you from?* “The US” *Oh good country! Many friends from US! This first time India??* “No” *First time Khajuraho???* “Yes” [continuing to walk away] *Hello! You just look my shop?* “No, thanks.” *Just looking, no buying!!....No charge just looking!!* Melissa was through with people seeming like they wanted to be friends but just in the end would ask for money or to see their shop. Perhaps this is why a good friendship takes time, so that you each party has a better idea about what the other’s intentions are. Although instinctive first impressions are valuable, knowing someone requires time. <br /><br />The autorickshaw driver in Varanasi only took us a certain distance from the train station. Something about high river waters or something? In any case, we were dropped off with a great deal of distance to walk in the busy streets of Varanasi before we would make it to the guest house we had eyed in the Lonely Planet. With heavy bags, oppressive heat, and sweat dripping into my eyes, it was difficult enough to manage walking let alone navigate this new place. Melissa led the way; fortunately she had been here before and had an idea of what to do. The ridiculously crowded main street led to a ghat, steps, that led into the water of the Ganges. Varanasi is known for these ghats that line the riverside; they are hubs of various activities ranging from conducting colorful religious ceremonies to yoga to bathing to washing clothes to selling goods to burning corpses. Because the water level was high enough to preclude us from walking along the ghats parallel to the river, Melissa and I weaved our way throughout the old city to get to our hotel. Although we had a shared bathroom, the hotel rooms wrapped around a large central open-aired patio with a good view of the river. <br /><br />The streets of the old city were one of my favorite parts of our time spent in Varanasi. They were too narrow to have noisy autos and other smoky vehicles. Maybe a few motorcycles here and there. The streets seemed so antique; stone slabs instead of asphalt, aged tiny shops, no organized plan or design. So many smells, colors, and activity in so little space. <br /><br />That evening we navigated our way to a main ghat to see a daily ceremony of dedication to the Ganges god. Many foreigners were also there viewing the colorful, fiery, musical display. During that time I also met a sadhu (holy man) robed in red, with a long beard and piercing blue eyes. He sat in front of a shop and had a dreadlocked man from Spain to his side. Evidently he was teaching the man from Spain to paint. Our lengthy conversation was difficult to follow, moments of profundity were punctured with eruptions of laughter at jokes, including his questions of why the angles in Los Angeles were lost. <br /><br />For dinner we headed back to the hotel; the power had gone out and indoor eating was too hot without fans. Melissa and I ate pizza and paneer overlooking the river, only slightly annoyed by the diesel exhaust being pumped into the air nearby from a generator powering the hotel. We offered some of the banana fritters we got for dessert to the Italians next to us. Lots of ‘foreignized’ food in tourism places like this. You don’t find baked goods and pizzas many times in India! Somehow they rarely hit the spot you have for them though. A formidable, lengthy, and nominally appetizing menu is no suggestion about the food’s taste. I guess a restaurant can’t be judged by its menu.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-46851951469935083072010-08-10T21:06:00.001+05:302010-08-10T21:06:58.451+05:30First few days in IndiaWell I’ve arrived at a point in time when I can sit down to type. What precedes this moment of repose however ended up being a very tangled mess. But first, let me start off with some words about a simpler place, home.<br /><br />As the days wound down to my departure to India, I found myself becoming significantly more emotional. It was difficult preventing thoughts about how long I would likely be away from friends and family. I was fortunate though to have a warm send-off that would make anyone feel loved. The morning of the day I left I woke up around 9 to organize some final things; Mom was up too and together we brainstormed more and more things that I should take along. However, as we started packing, it became clear that it would be a tight fit. I only wanted to have 2 bags that I could carry because I plan to be traveling quite a bit before going to Bangladesh. 2 carry-ons for a year and 2 months is no small task. Through careful rearrangement, we were able to fit it all in, and actually it works out that one bag I can have over my shoulders in back and the other in front, leaving my arms free. The bag with my clothes was a graduation present from Aunt Karin; it’s waterproof and collapsible, so it should prove to be a great asset while traveling. <br /><br />Around 11 my old roommate from college, Dan Kuhn, came by. Although he lives all the way out in New Jersey, he was visiting his relatives out in Pittsburgh, and it was a stroke of fortune that he was able to meet up with me one last time before I left for South Asia. It was so good to see him again; the last time we had been in the same place it was at school on the day of graduation several months before. He made me realize how grateful I am for our strong friendship, but also how much I will miss being around the friends that I’ve grown with at school. Chris and John showed up at around 11:30, and also Sam ran all the way from his house because he didn’t have a car. All 5 of us went to eat lunch at Panera, just the kind of food that I knew I would be craving in a few months’ time. 3 more people were waiting on the front steps of the house when we got back: Luke, Nathan, and Madeline Badaczewski, and it wasn’t long before their mom and another sampling, Eli, arrived as well. Dan Ochs also came by after a few more minutes. After exchanging our goodbyes (and receiving some delicious cookies and scones from Mrs. Badaczewski), it was just Muhlenberg Dan, me, and my mom left to straighten up everything else in about half an hour before going to the airport. I am still processing how blown away and deeply affected I was to have witnessed so many friends come by on my final day to bid me their farewells. <br /><br />Dad drove home from work, so after saying goodbye to Dan, it was just us family heading to the airport. Both of my bags ended up being sufficiently small to carry on the plane. Security took longer than expected, and despite rushing to make a departing tram and running to the gate, the door had closed ten minutes before departure, leaving me about 2 minutes too late for the plane. Dad had already been talking to the registration desk, and after some discussion, we were pleased to know that I could be put on the next flight to Chicago for no extra charge and still make the connecting flight to Delhi. During spare time at the airports I made some final calls to friends and family, wondering where I’d be and what I’d exactly be doing in about 16 hours’ time. <br /><br />The flight from Chicago to Delhi was 14 hours. American Airlines was okay; I wasn’t as wowed as with Jet Airways for certain. The entertainment system was so sparse I didn’t even use it. Breakfast was cancelled because of turbulence from a thunderstorm we were flying through to make it to Delhi. The terminal we arrived at was brand new and had opened about 3 months before I think. Everything was wide open and clean and white, fortunately enough space for the hundreds and hundreds of people going through customs. There were massive sculptures of hands in traditional Indian dance poses above our heads to keep us distracted. After about a 40 minutes’ wait, I was through and just about to leave the airport. The metro is from the airport to the city is not up and running yet (it will be in about 3 months I think), and I was disappointed that the bus I was counting on to take me into the city was not running. That left a taxi as a final option. I’ve heard it’s best to get a prepaid voucher from the government run taxi booth, and it was a great suggestion because my driver ended up being quite a savior this evening. <br /><br />The humidity was so thick it made you think like you were walking around on the ocean floor; sights and smells rushed back to me. It was easy to see that indeed I was back in India. The drive to New Delhi Train Station was about 20 km; from there I was hoping to find accommodation in an adjacent area littered with backpacking lodges and guest houses. The driver knew before we got there though that the area was “broken” and had so much construction, and something about upcoming sports games or something, that many places were closed and full. The situation looking grim (and the time being about 10 pm) we drove—by suggestion of the driver—to a government operated tourist agency. I used their phone to call many places I had been looking at, only to find out that they were all entirely full. The process was extremely slow. The telephone line had to be repaired a few times. The person helping me was asking me about my stay and insisted that I call to confirm the times of the train tickets I’ve booked to places outside Delhi. Due to storms many were cancelled or delayed. For my first ticket to Khajuraho from Delhi a few days from now, our operator told us that it was 42 hours delayed. <br /><br />Accommodation possibilities were looking bleaker and bleaker. I admit that part of the issue was me not wanting to take the openings at the 3-5 star hotels that had vacancies, but I also must admit that their fees for a single room for one night exceeded 5 and 6 hundred US dollars. My tourist person brainstormed some schemes to get me out of the city by bus or mini-bus to stay in Agra or Jaipur instead. Without wanting to complicate the situation further (I still need to meet with Melissa tomorrow, as we’ve planned to travel for a week together), I insisted on staying in Delhi and trying to find a less expensive place. By now the taxi driver had been waiting about 2 hours. <br /><br />We decided to drive to Market Place, about a five minutes’ drive away, to investigate some possibilities that were not in Lonely Planet. At midnight though, not many places are open for business to say the least. The second place we stopped at, was the cheapest accommodation yet and also looked like the last option I could take. Although I wasn’t tired (it was early afternoon for me), I took the room at $120 for one night, credit card was not accepted, only cash. <br /><br />I need to try to rest some so that I can scout around for another place tomorrow. Especially if the train is delayed for so long, I cannot afford to stay here multiple days. My AirTel Indian cell phone is not receiving the network, I’m not sure whether it’s a problem with the phone or with AirTel itself. That will need to be investigated tomorrow as well, perhaps I can get in touch with my friend Vipin who lives in this area to help me out. I also need to see whether my other train tickets are delayed as well. I’m very thankful for my taxi driver, he was how I found the tourist agency in the first place, and it was through his concern for my safety that I was able to get to the places I needed to go. In addition to what was hopefully a healthy tip, I thanked him and apologized for the confusion. <br /><br />So, suffice it to say, things are not going as hoped for. I’ve learned some things though. Namely, reserve a hotel before coming to Delhi. Although I tried to call a few places from the US and it wouldn’t go through. Hmm. The situation could be better, it could be worse. I could be more fazed by the situation; I guess I’ve built up my nerves ahead of time in anticipation for unexpected issues. Let’s see what happens tomorrow. <br /><br />Hello again, India. <br /><br />Last evening closed on a bad note, not only because of how uncertain I was about everything, but also because the surge protector I put into the outlet erupted with a boom, sparks, and smoke from the unfamiliar current. Badly shaken and feeling pretty defeated, I resigned and tried to sleep. Although it felt like ‘day’ perhaps the lack of sleep on the airplane made it possible to sleep soundly (minus a few nightmares) all the way until the phone woke me up at 8:30. Hoping to sleep until just before check out at 12:00, I was disappointed to say the least. The staff wanted me to go to another room in 15 minutes because of a preexisting reservation for my room. Whatever.<br /><br />When I stepped out of the room into the lobby, an enthusiastic man approached me, asking the traditional questions of where I was going and what I was doing in India etc. Only half-heartedly answering him, my ears were caught when he started talking about cheaper accommodations for tomorrow. *You don’t want to stay here. What is it..5…6 thousand rupees? I take you to gowarment operated tourist office. Der they will help you to find less pricy room, also check you train booking reservation. Come come, taxi free of charge, paid for with fee for room.* Well I didn’t really feel like going back to sleep, and there was work to be done today sorting this all out, so we departed from the most expensive night in India I’ve spent for the office. <br /><br />Very little of what I type in this blog should be taken as a truth. In fact, really none. After today, the entire tone of what I wrote yesterday would have changed. The tourist office we went to looked more professionally-run than the one yesterday, they claimed that it was likely that the place I was at yesterday was not a valid agency and that much of what I was involved in may have been a scam. Again you never know. The taxi driver: “So, do you think that my driver from yesterday got a commission to take me to the expensive hotel?” *No I don’t think so, but maybe he try, maybe so maybe not.* Today’s tourist agent: “But I watched him dial all the numbers of all the guest houses…every one said that they were full” *He may dial, but dial may be go to same person, same person say same ting.* “But we called the number on the IRCTC reservation to confirm the booking when they told me it was delayed.” *Again, maybe same person. Maybe maybe not. Here we check on internet, official gowarment website. Here. Yes is confirmed ticket tomorrow. No delay.* “So how do I know when to trust someone??” *You trust what’s inside, that’s all you can do. Done, is finish. Yesterday is yesterday. How much you pay for room?* “About 6 thousand rupees” *Whoosh that’s a lot. Again, done, finish, you learn for tomorrow, you trust what’s inside.* <br /><br />I guess trusting my inside at that time was not going back to the Pahar ganj area where I had intended to stay. If I had gone back, I would have had to have left the taxi driver and walk around in an unfamiliar place to search for a guest house. Today’s agent claimed it would have been fine to walk around to find a guest house, there would have been some open. Perhaps it was worth the 120 dollars to stay in a place that the taxi took me to? Perhaps it was better to be involved in a scam? That’s a little harder to answer. Of course, perhaps nothing was with bad intentions. Maybe we’ll call last night an ‘ouch’ moment. You end up accumulating a good deal of those while in India. We’ll never know the intention behind the wound, the reason for what happened, but in the end it’s best not to carry the wound and its pain with you.<br /><br />Today’s agent saw that I was heading from Nizamuddin station tomorrow from my train ticket, that is in South Delhi. Rather than trying again to find a place in Pahar ganj, he knew of a family guest house in south Delhi near the station that I could go to. Less crowded, home cooked food, only 600 rs. or so a night. <br /><br />The owner of the guest house was very helpful and had internet which I used to contact Melissa (Melissa and I became friends in Hyderabad, she’s from Chicago and likes to travel; we intend on traveling for a week together). I was surprised to read on facebook that she was waiting for the train to Delhi in one message, then in Delhi and going to Pahar ganj to see if she could find me, then in the final message actually in Hotel Rak International (where I had wanted to stay yesterday) looking for me. When I called the hotel I found out she had already booked a room there. With me in the south and she in the north, we decided to meet up in Pahar ganj today then maybe go to the south tomorrow. <br /><br />Before finding an auto to go to Pahar ganj, I wanted to square away my phone. Gopal, the cook/helper in the home, took me to the local AirTel station where I inquired about a new sim card. Needing passport/visa photocopies and a passport photo for one, I went back to the house, then walked back to the AirTel station with another housemate from England, Joel. My new cell plan enables calling to the US for only 2.5 rs. a minute, that’s about 6 US cents a minute, much more economical than the 3 dollars a minute or whatever roaming AT&T charges. <br /><br />Back at the house, Gopal had prepared lunch: rice, daal, palak (spinach), and a potato/cabbage dish. My first meal in India was all I could have hoped for. <br /><br />At about 3 pm (hours after I had told Melissa I would be in Pahar ganj, things operate more slowly in India, especially when Joel and I tried to find an auto that would take us up there) Joel and I arrived at the elusive Pahar ganj. I the area in my head was in so much dispute yesterday (should I go back, should I not?) that it was like finally arriving at a goal when we got there. I had worn the sandals I had throughout Hyderabad and last summer in India/Bangladesh. Those sandals ripped last fall. I’ve been waiting for almost a year now to get them sown back together for the third or fourth time. Who else takes worn out, broken sandals in an already tightly packed suitcase? Well, they are my favorite. And no place repairs broken footware like India As soon as Joel and I stepped down onto the ground, a shoe repair man scurried over to us offering his services, probably readily tipped off that my gait was off balance. “Well yes you CAN repair my sandals! I’ve actually been waiting a long time for this!!”<br /><br />Melissa ran out to greet us as we approached the hotel; it was amazing to see her again after about 2 whole years. It was just like old times, especially because we were both back in India. She told me about her internship the past 6 months in Bangladesh and was excited to get me in touch with the friends she made there. She did not like Dhaka though. Too crowded, too hot, to unhealthy. She’s curious what my impressions will be next year, and so am I. <br /><br />Walking around Pahar ganj was not like something I’ve ever experienced in India before. Remember how I said the driver told me Pahar ganj was ‘broken’? It is. It’s like a crowded city area, except all the roads are torn up, bricks are everywhere, rubble is piled up to your head in some places, and the facades of all the street structures are ripped off. While trying not to trip on a brick or get sprayed with a shower of sparks from a metal welder over head or get clobbered with falling rubble (these are overstatements really, I mean, if you heed to the steel bars lining dangerous areas, it’s not an issue), I would glimpse all of the rooms in all of the structures lining the streets. You could tell, there’s a kitchen, there’s a bathroom on the third floor, it’s tiled and has a toilet. There’s a bedroom, that woman is sleeping. It’s like cutting a block of swiss cheese, and the holes are the rooms. Metal cross bars jutted out from the floors and walls out into the street area, or what is ‘now’ the street area. The reason for the mess is a street expansion. How do you widen a street that is packed on either side with structures? Well, slice the structures a few feet thinner to MAKE ROOM. The commonwealth games coming up in October evidently are a big deal to necessitate such renovation. And also necessitate wide streets? Not sure why. Are they playing the games in the streets?<br /><br />The three of us went to the metro. To get to Old Delhi. Getting off at distant Old Delhi, we planned on walking back down through Old Delhi to Pahar ganj. I like Delhi more and more, and Old Delhi was in-credible. Keeping an eye out for my favorite street foods, sweets, and snacks, we chose to walk in a southern direction (due to the sun setting in the west). We passed the massive Red Fort, a landmark of Delhi, the whole way (the walls span for quite some time). Every once in a while, crowds of people dressed in dirty orange and carrying massive colorful stick apparatuses (and also usually shouting) would pass us. They are Hindu pilgrims, trekking for an entire week to a holy site, and usually without footware. <br /><br />Consulting a map, we saw we needed to head west towards the setting sun to approach New Delhi station and Pahar ganj. A glorious mosque stood in our way. Making our way around it and all of those getting ready for the evening call to prayer, we veered off into a crowded and colorful side alley. One’s senses are overwhelmed with sparkling bangles, colorful cloths, animal heads and entrails on butcher’s front stoops, mountains of fruit, dense hoards of people and richshaws, and smells ranging from body odors to sweet fruit to exhaust and cigarette smoke to soothing incense. The road winded and branched and winded and narrowed then widened etc etc. Then we kept going. Then it branched and winded and narrowed and branched and widened and winded. We stopped for a snack. And winding and branching and winding and branching. What direction are we going in again? The sun is blocked by the buildings. Look, there’s a wider more populated road, let’s go there. This continued for quite some time. By the time we had emptied out into a major thoroughfare, I had delighted myself with a mango shake, several sweet and spicy kachori chaat puffs, 2 samosas, several fried-crunchy but syrup-drippy jilebis, paan, lime soda, squeezed mosambi citrus juice, a few mangos…there must have been more. Hey, when you’re in Old Delhi. Asking folks for the New Delhi Station, we were pointed what felt like north. Just as it started to get dark, we stumbled upon the first sweet shop we had visited after just having gotten out of the metro. We had made a massive circle. One giant, adventurous, unintended, tasty, smelly, dizzying Old Delhi circle. <br /><br />With our unanticipated-ly thorough self-designed tour of Old Delhi, we took the metro back to Pahar ganj and ran into an…energetic, elderly, bearded, turbaned,…mystic? man. He approached us and claimed that Melissa had great potential but was lacking good vibration. Her energies were off. Of course realizing that he’d be wanting money, but also knowing we wanted to give none, yet at the same time somewhat intrigued what the man would do, we gave him our attention and stepped into a nearby open-aired eater to sit down. For the next hour we chatted intermittently. The man asked Melissa questions like how many letters her father’s name had, which…holy man? she first glimpsed in a picture, how many this, what that, etc. All the while writing single capital letters on a scrap piece of paper. In no order. Then he gave Melissa a crumpled slip of paper. *What is the first color that you think of now?* “Green.” The paper uncrumpled read G-R-E-E-N. I ordered veg Manchurian and veg chow mein noodles, the place looked like it had some good Chinese food. He sat at one side of the table; we, the other. *Your mind is blocked. You have too much concern for your money. Money is you eat and you shit, and dat is all, finish. I am talk about what is here (point to head) and here (point to chest). This last. Your mind blocked.* “You want rupees, I’ve given you 20 but will offer you no more” *you are blocked, I give you 5 year challenge, you go, you face the crazy world you face crazy outside, then you come back, you find me in 5 years you still have problem, give and take.* “Is this religious advice?” *Shit religion, there one God, religion no, I know what I need to know, you know what you know, but you not know what I know, and you never know what I know. Your aura I see, I see everybody aura, many many tings people don’t see.* “(me) And this advice, how much will are you wanting for it?” *Tousand rupees* “Sorry, I’ve run low on money after last night. How about we trade advice, I offer mine, and you offer yours. Money blocks the mind anyway, right? Let’s keep it about what is here (point to head) and here (point to chest)” *I give you 20 year challenge* “I’ll be 42!” *By then you will want to come back to here, you can find me. You want to look for something but never find it. I help you, later. 20 year challenge you go into crazy world, you realize your problems, then come to me.* “(still me) How about a piece of advice while I’m taking this challenge” *Advice, is dat you don’t see it, is here, is go away, you don’t see. Is here, is go away. Every moment. You don’t see. You don’t get back.* “…” *Is like you travel, you need return. Confirm ticket. Book ticket confirm, go home. Travel, no.* “But what about everything there is to be gained and exchanged from travel?” *You no need, confirm ticket* “…” *You born out of mother stomach a teacher?* “…” *You born, right then, a teacher like you go teach now?* “[! No one mentioned to you that I am teaching next year]” *You born teacher right then?* “No.” *Der, you see? Other people make you who you are, you learn from others. Just remember, 20 year challenge, you come find me you want to know after you go all into crazy world outside. You take it, you leave it.” This conversation is no more confusing than the majority of conversations I stagger through with people in India. See how it might be difficult to detect a scam? You can never really tell what’s going on. You must be thinking this man is out of his mind. After time in India, maybe it’s not so much crazy as it is a mixture of enthusiasm, the drive for money, the experienced tactfulness in tickling a foreigner’s interest, and the love of the whole game. There were no hard feelings that we gave no more than 20 rupees. If he had wanted ‘money,’ he would have accepted our offers of 50 rupees. But no, it was more about the advice. And that advice was evidently of great value. I was interested, but not rs. 1000 worth, and it was an exciting dinner conversation anyway. Our last glance as I turned my head upon exiting the restaurant to say goodbye seemed to last much longer than it actually would have. He was standing calmly with deep, still eyes and a smug look on his face as if to say *and best of luck to you in this crazy world.*<br /><br />The next morning I spent relaxing around the guest house. Three mangos and cinnamon tea for breakfast. Ruby, the house owner, and her mom sat/laid on the sofa in the middle of the living room. Every once in a while they would shout *GoPAAL* and he would hurry out of the kitchen or back room to receive their requests. Then the phone would ring and Ruby’s mother would shout on it for a half a minute, then hang up whenever the conversation would be finished, with no audible goodbye. <br /><br />Melissa, Joel, and I went that afternoon to the India gate, an Arch du Triumphe-like monument about a kilometer away from the president’s estate, a massive grassy lawn between the two. We spent a few hours wandering around that area talking, and sat under a tree for a good bit too. Eventually we took an auto to a promenade mall-esque area in the southwest of Delhi where there was a restaurant I wanted to eat at. Its posh interior reminded me of a Cheesecake Factory. As Joel and Melissa and I talked the afternoon away, I remember feeling just as if I were in the US. Our discussions of career interests, philosophies, physics, impressions of culture, and past memories lasted until 7 pm, when we booked it back to the guest house to pick up the bags and then straight to the Nizamuddin station where we fortunately caught our train just in time. The next morning we were to be in Khajuraho, a famous temple town.<br /><br />On the train I talked some with the others in our compartment; they were going to Khajuraho as a sight-seeing vacation through their business or something. Things went well until I tried to go to sleep. Fortunately I had the bottom tier bed, as I would be up and down many many times that night. An angry stomach kept me up (likely made worse by the shaky train). Multiple bouts of diarrhea and vomiting followed. Despite finding the extra blankets, I shivered constantly as a fever grew. In addition to the shivering, I couldn’t stay in one position very long before stomach pains made me shift again and again. As my condition got progressively worse and worse, at about 4 am I tried calling the parents to see what they thought of the situation. I tried to call with a pre-paid phone card, but unable to figure out all the numbers, I considered it justified to use the US phone (regrettably at almost three dollars a minute). This was the first I had spoken with them since leaving. They thought the antibiotic I had was a good idea along with pepto bismol, and of course water. Unfortunately I was fresh out of water stores and the small stations we were stopping at didn’t seem to be selling bottled water, and my friends were out of water too. Ended up using some bottled water from someone I didn’t know and never met, as everyone was asleep. <br /><br />I arrived at Khajuraho the next morning very drained, without sleep, and able to walk but not stand for long before getting out of breath. Melissa and I sat at the station for a while before getting a rickshaw into town where we checked in to a close by hotel. The dissolvable rehydration salts she bought for me ended really helping. That morning we talked more and she told me stories about her travels in Thailand and Cambodia and Bangladesh before I napped in the afternoon. In the evening I felt much better and we went to a rooftop restaurant where you could see large temples across the street. Still without an appetite, I just got a lemon soda. Finally I also got that pre-paid phone card to work, quite the asset as it is about 40x less expensive to call the US than through AT&T.<br /><br />As we walked around the town that night, every few steps another shop owner would pop out and start asking us where we were from, how we liked India, etc. We have become pretty jaded to such small talk because most often, especially in a tourist place like this, the conversation would always end with the shop owner insisting that we have a look, and we replying with a “no thanks” or “sorry just exploring.” It is always so difficult to determine what one’s motivation is to talk to one of us. Many times it is for money one way or another, in some places more than others. And it’s gone about in so many ways. Perhaps the few people that offer an informal tour even for no charge want to do so because a relationship is formed that in the end usually leads to a tip. People offer advice, people lie, etc. Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. A taxi driver advises a tourist to stay out of an area late at night because the guest houses there will be hard to find and will be full anyway. For safety’s sake, it would be best to go to a tourist office and call from there to book a reservation. Through calls and advice, the tourist office suggests getting out of the city, as the only accommodation options are so expensive. The tourist wants to stay in the city, so he is taken by the taxi driver to a safe place to stay that is the least expensive of the bunch. Sound familiar? Sound like everyone has each other’s best interests at heart? A behind-the-scenes picture can be painted: The guest houses are not full. They are not located in a dangerous area. The tourist agency routes all the calls to someone who says what they want. They want you to take one of their tours, so they make it seem like staying in the city is an impossibility. The taxi driver walks with you into the hotel lobby, offering to carry a bag. The manager catches sight of the driver and skyrocket’s the room fee to include a commission for the driver. Three simple words: I don’t know. However I do know that the agency claimed my train to Khajuraho was 42 hours delayed. I also know that that same train left exactly on time when Melissa and I left 2 days later from Delhi.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-396282147292003542010-07-31T04:06:00.002+05:302010-07-31T04:08:29.704+05:30Contemplating the presentI sit in my room at home in Wexford, PA and wonder what my surroundings will be like in one week. Throughout August and half of September I plan to be traveling around India before heading over to Bangladesh, where I'll learn the language until the end of the year and teach English until October of 2011 through a Fulbright scholarship. <br /><br />I've been busy this summer getting new bank accounts set up, transferring software and my iTunes library to a new laptop, going through paperwork for Fulbright, scouting for cheap airplane tickets, wrestling with the Indian train ticket booking website, uploading pictures from college onto facebook before they all get lost, trying to sell old textbooks from college, etc etc, and oh yes there's saying goodbye to old friends (most of whom are spread across the country now working new jobs), spending time with the family, and trying to soak everything in while I'm still in the US. I look back at my time spent abroad in India 2 years ago and remember how far away everything--all this--my piano, speedy internet, spacious neighborhoods, massive supermarkets, exercising at the athletic club, prizing locally-grown and organic food products, a relaxing living room, an environment that conjures up nostalgic memories of a simpler high school lifestyle--was from me. A distance not only physical, but also one that marks profound dissimilarities. No matter how many miles away Wexford and Hyderabad are from each other, both are incredibly different worlds; compare previous entries from 2008 and 2009 to a spacious, clean suburb and you'll see what I mean. <br /><br />In any case, I'm back in a suburban way of living, and I have been the whole summer. Comforts become invisiblized over time. As is the case with most things, 'you don't know what you have until it's gone', and I imagine that in a week when I'm in the steaming, crowded streets of Delhi, that cold fruit juice that's always in the fridge will look pretty appetizing. Memory is a funny thing though. The ease of being in Wexford was idealized in my mind after a few months in India. However, complaints easily rise to the surface from my seat here in my room. Things come to mind like boredom, having to drive everywhere, recognizing wastefulness, and feeling like physical activity has to be planned to compensate for a largely sedentary lifestyle. I suppose the dynamics of memory and the desensitized customs of day-to-day life both complicate what it means to know a place. Present and surroundings. Past and memories. Future and hopes/fears. Where do we actually live? <br /><br />As I organize my things in preparation of going abroad again next week, one thing is for sure: time is limited. Maybe this means that taking the time to really process what's around me needs to find its way up a few noches on the priority list. It won't be here forever. Maybe that's one of the things travel teaches us. The dynamics of life can be pretty wrenching sometimes. Things begin, they end. I guess however I want to look at the present situation though, I know one thing: It's time for something new.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-54469732033006534522008-11-27T10:23:00.003+05:302009-08-08T02:28:30.290+05:30UpdateJust want to let everyone know that I'm alive and well; more updates later. Most of the SIP students have left by now for either home or traveling...fortunately no one that I know was in Mumbai at the time of the attacks.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-659701055904679152009-08-08T02:16:00.001+05:302009-08-08T02:18:39.467+05:30Bangladesh round I, India round IIOne day in my room last year at the hostel in Hyderabad, I decided to clean my desktop; hand sanitizer seemed like a good idea since I was also hoping to wipe out any leftover germs from the rat droppings. To wipe the surface clean I used a Muhlenberg College newspaper, used as filling in the care package that my friends Bekki and Dan had sent earlier. After tossing the dirtied remains into the trash box outside, my eye glimpsed a headline on the paper having to do with studying abroad and Bangladesh. Intrigued, I fished out the crumpled paper from the garbage and read the article that explained how a new class at Muhlenberg was being offered in the spring that included a two week study/travel experience in Bangladesh. The class was centered on ideas of sustainable development, natural disasters, and a changing climate. Since the environment and foreign countries are two of my favorite things, that evening I applied for the class. I had applied only a day or two before the deadline—good thing I decided to clean my desk on the day that I did—I was accepted into the course and looked forward all of last semester to my next excursion in a foreign land. <br /><br />The class size was about 18 students, most had studied abroad previously and many had environmentally-related majors. There were also two professors, one of which (Dr. Hashim) is actually from Bangladesh and it was through his knowledge of and contact with the country that our itinerary was possible. The semester along with my readjustments to Muhlenberg life, exams, and essays took up all too much of my attention, and the realization that I’d be flying across the world for a second time in only one week came as a shock when the semester ended. I would have liked to have read more about the country, its people, and its language in preparation for the trip, but before I knew it I had my suitcase packed and was at JFK airport waiting with our class to board the plane to Dubai. That flight was quite a first: my first time flying Emirates, my longest flight ever (14 hours), and the largest aircraft I’ve ever been on. The Airbus A380 has 2 complete floors and four engines, each of which are significantly larger than any I’ve seen on a plane. I watched a 3 hour documentary on the plane’s construction while in flight (along with A Bug’s Life and Mrs. Doubtfire); evidently its component parts (manufactured across Europe) were so large that they couldn’t be flown to a common area for construction, so they were transported by land and sea. That’s not an easy task considering the longer transportation times and hilly countryside. <br /><br />Dubai airport is structurally incredibly simple, from the air I bet it looks basically like a long oval. Inside though is another story; it has many floors and so many dazzling stores that it’s definitely easy to get disoriented. You’d think you were in an extravagant multi-story mall before you’d think you’re in an airport! Our layover there was for about 7 hours; although Dr. Hashim recommended we stay at our next gate, I was anxious to explore a new place and fortunately found a group of about 5 brave students who were also willing to try our luck at exiting the airport. By asking about half a dozen people we eventually located customs and easily obtained temporary visas free of charge. And just like that we stepped out into the thick evening heat. It wasn’t difficult to find a taxi that would drive us into the city and accept our US currency. After another 15 minutes we were patrolling around the city sidewalks, admiring the lights, buildings, and internationality of the area. To capstone our quick adventure, we found a road-side eatery that appeared small and locally-owned but also popular, attracting quite a crowd. We received many curious glances and were eagerly directed by our waiter to a private room in the back. We asked for the most commonly ordered menu item, and in about 15 minutes we had a table full of veggies, flatbread, and a heaping pile of diced mutton, chicken, kidney, liver, and brain. The taste had a slight mineral-like aspect to it, but if you tried to forget exactly what it was you were eating, it was a pretty appetizing meal. We made it back to the airport in plenty of time to wait for our next plane ride; no one would have realized we had ventured out into the city if we hadn’t been so excited to share our story. <br /><br />The plane ride to Dhaka (capital of Bangladesh) was only 4 hours but certainly transported you a world away from the international hub of wealth that Dubai seemed to be. The first thing I remember initially observing in Bangladesh was from the airplane before we landed in Dhaka. It struck me to see so many tall smoke chimneys spread about the landscape. Dozens were scattered about, and each had a square of orange/red at its base, so I figured these chimneys were for brick-making. Since there weren’t many buildings around the chimneys, I figured that they were placed outside of Dhaka maybe because of pollution. I remember reading somewhere that because of the low-lying geographical environment of the country, stone was hard to come by. Bricks were therefore recruited for more construction purposes, and they could also be used to make cement by first being grounded down to a powder. Evidently it is an influential and heavily relied-upon industry. On our bus rides to and from Dhaka, I remember one of our guides saying that there was an enforced minimum height for the brick-chimneys (maybe 40 feet?) so the smoke produced didn’t contaminate the air nearest to the ground. Although pollution readily observed by those on the land could be lessened by increasing chimney height, I wonder about the implications that has for greenhouse influences. I read somewhere that the reason that planes so heavily contribute to the greenhouse quality of the atmosphere is due to not only the volume of carbon dioxide emitted but also due to the height at which it is released. I wonder if, although heightened chimneys cut down on ground pollution, a heavier greenhouse effect is contributed when waste is released at a higher altitude. I also remember observing that some chimneys were emitting blackened smoke and some were emitting white smoke. Evidently that’s because some have filters, but it wasn’t compulsory. I wonder if filters cut down not only on pollution but also on greenhouse-influence. In a larger perspective, how equivalent are the polluting agents with which humans are concerned in comparison to the polluting agents that have the most damaging effects on the global environmental organism? <br /><br />Upon landing, I remember becoming extremely excited. Finally I was in an area that reminded me of India. The hectic driving, honking, dangerous vehicle weaving, and multitude of colors all made the environment very active and energetic. Despite all of the cars and busses, the air in the city was easy to breathe. In Hyderabad, if you went into the city you came back with hurting lungs and blackened mucus. It was refreshing not to have that issue in Dhaka. The reason for this is the conversion of vehicle energy source from diesel/petrol to CNG (compressed natural gas). Such a conversion must have been a monumental undertaking. I’m fully confident that the United States would have quite a difficult time with it, having a transportation sector that is so heavily reliant upon gasoline. Once I watched a vehicle getting refilled with CNG. Gas content is based on pressure, not volume, and the hole through which the tank is filled is as tiny as a basketball’s. The whole system is so different from what we’re used to. Evidently it just takes the handiwork of roadside shops to conduct a diesel/petrol to CNG conversion for a vehicle. I think that CNG as an energy source is cheaper for Bangladeshis than diesel/petrol; it also is obviously less polluting. I wonder which reason(s) gave the impetus to have such a huge energy source conversion. I also wonder to what extent it benefits the environment; it is easier on the breath, but carbon dioxide I think is colorless and odorless anyway. Lastly I wonder how the conversion impacted the sustainability of transportation-sector energy. I think CNG stores will provide Bangladesh for another 50 years or so, and that may be more or less than what diesel/petrol would afford. In any case, the presence of CNG was one of the most striking things I observed in all of Bangladesh, and I was glad to see it. <br /><br />The days we were in Dhaka, our group stayed at a hotel that although was more compact, offered the same environment as a hotel we would expect in the US. The staff was probably more excited to see our group though than you would expect; you can imagine how much attention we received! After our arrival, we met with Dr. Atiq Rahman, the executive director of BCAS (Bangladesh Center for Advanced Studies), the NGO (non-government organization) that was working with us during our stay. Dr. Atiq is a leading specialist on the environment and development and has taught at MIT and Oxford University. He delivered a lecture that afternoon, but unfortunately I wasn’t 100% conscious for all of it. Many of us were very tired after the trip. I was saddened that I hadn’t been able to pay more attention, but I planned to make up for it by conversing with him while we were on the boat going through the southern Sundarbans mangrove forest later that week. <br /><br />Before our trip to the Sundarbans, we did some sight-seeing in and around Dhaka. The National Martyr’s Monument in Savar is 50 meters high and is formed by 7 concrete triangles that accentuate the tip at the top of the monument. It was built to honor the millions who died for Bangladesh’s independence in 1971 (the Bangladesh area was formerly part of Pakistan since its partition from India in 1947 after the British left). A component of the directive for national independence in the 1970s was the Bengali Language Movement where an emphasis on the Bangla language sought to overpower the Pakistani institutionalization of Urdu. Although this sense of pride provided a unified power, I imagine it also has prevented significant prevalence of foreign languages like English throughout the country. As globalization seems to adopt a continually growing importance in the perspectives of national leaders and policy makers, and as much foreign aid comes from English-speaking countries, I wonder if there is any regret in Bangladesh that English isn’t a more pervasive language. I also wonder to what extent English will institutionalize its way into Bangladeshi culture as globalization progresses and if English-speaking aid donors continue to support mitigation efforts in Bangladesh. In reflection of the current situation, it was certainly an observation of mine that English was spoken/understood significantly less in Bangladesh than in the places I visited in India. I also wonder how accountable the Bengali Language Movement is for this observation. <br /><br />We visited Dhamrai, a Hindu area famous for its bronze-making. An object like a religious statue is first carved from bee’s wax and then coated with clay. It is fired in an oven to harden the clay, and after the melted wax is poured out, a clay mold remains. Molten bronze metal can be poured into it, and the clay later removed after cooling to reveal underneath a bronze statue. <br /><br />At some point we visited a Hindu temple. It was a spectacular sensory experience for me to see Hindu gods again and smell incense. I remember a devotee there answering my inquiry about life’s purpose by responding that we need to recognize that we are all related and treat one another like family. It is puzzling to me how both Islam and Hinduism seem to preach values of universal brotherhood, but that we hear so much about Islam-Hindu conflict (eg. during partition). Anecdotally mostly every Bangladeshi/Indian that I have ever spoken with about religion has declared that they have no problem with other faiths. In this way, religious tolerance is something that I certainly observe while abroad in India and Bangladesh. Our dozen-member Sundarbans boat crew alone represented Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian faiths. They acknowledge such diversity with pride.<br /><br />On a related note, I remember discussing with Dr. Hashim the religious backwardness of the US in comparison to Pakistan. It feel that many in the US are quick to judge areas like Pakistan as being one of the most destructive areas globally because of religious influence. I think many fail to recognize the backwardness of our own country, where religious ideals seem to often arise as a product of literal biblical interpretation. Such interpretations cause their own rampant destruction in the form of intolerance, blind evangelism, close-mindedness, and ultimately outright or latent conflict due to the inability to accommodate varied perspectives. I imagine some of these issues in the US leak into the political scene of the country and influence policy priority and legislation. Having different religious perspectives is not a problem, but thinking that you have the one True answer is. When infrastructure development is set aside, there may be more similarities amongst us, whether we hail from the US or even Pakistan, than we care to admit. To reference the bible: Take the log out of your own eye before criticizing the twig in your neighbor’s. <br /><br />We then took a boat ride to Kakran, a pottery village. During most of the 40 minute ride we were trudging through dense water foliage. You could not even see the water underneath. I wonder if the plants flourished so much because of water pollution that doubles as plant nutrients. It was obvious how much it slowed our boat and how river travel would become quite complicated with such plant intrusion. I wonder how rapidly the plant-life has recently grown, and what implications that has had on the overall wildlife of the river. <br /><br />The village makes pottery by cooking the clay objects in a temporary kiln over a fire pit. I remember being struck by how compact the village was. There was not ample space between structures but really only alleys to walk from place to place. Many people were excited to see us, and some of us hit a beach ball around with them. Hospitality and friendliness were common themes we observed when visiting these places. Curiosity seemed to also be one, as a white foreigner was bound to be relentlessly stared at. I wonder how often people like this see foreigners. It made me uncomfortable how much I was perceiving my own behaviors, taking care with any step or word. I imagined that our behaviors would significantly contribute to how these people would conceptualize foreigners, and I didn’t want to make a poor impression. I wondered what they think of when they see us. I wonder how their perceptions of foreigners changed from our presence there. Despite all of my experiences in India, visiting these villages was rather new to me. It is less common to visit villages like that, probably because it is difficult to arrange. It was certainly a gift for us to be able to visit these more obscure but significant places and to observe their arrangement of life that most Bangladeshis likely assume. Such areas are also likely the most heavily influenced by a changing climate.<br /><br />We visited the oldest part of Dhaka city by touring the Sadarghat River Front, the pink palace Ahsan Manzil, Shankhari Bazaar, Lalbagh Fort, a walk through the area, and a rickshaw ride. It must have been quite the deal to coordinate. I remember being struck by how low the full barges and river boats were. It seems that they’re loaded to complete capacity, which means on the verge of sinking. Sometimes you can’t even see the edges of the boat because the brim is submerged, and only the square cargo openings and bridge of the boat are left visible. Also, many of the boats looked like pirate ships, all wooden with raised pointed ends. They were characteristically very different from water-faring craft I’ve seen before; usually we see metal or fiberglass boats, not wooden ones.<br /><br />I was surprised that our motorcoach could fit through all of the streets. Once I remember we hit a man when we were turning, and he got very angry. I wonder if there is a way for a student body like ours to safely transport ourselves from location to location without using the motorcoach as often, especially because I value my experience in and amongst the crowd very highly and love walking around. It would have also been nice to spend more time in Old Dhaka; it’s such a fascinating place. Those who wanted to try out their Bangla (maybe only me) or purchase cha, paan, and trinkets had to do so very rapidly or risk disrupting the group’s progress. There are certainly restrictions that have to be considered when traveling with a group, especially a large one like ours. <br /><br />At some point during our stay in Dhaka we also visited several universities in the city and met with students and representatives to hear what they had to say about the area, how the climate is changing, and how sustainable development and disaster mitigation are being continuously folded into the public scene. We also met with a community hospital and a center focused on public policy dialogue, creation, and implementation. <br /><br />So then that evening we boarded the boat heading to the Sundarbans. The Sundarbans is the largest mangrove forest in the world, and it encompasses much of the coastline of Bangladesh and West Bengal in India. A mangrove forest is one that survives in inundated conditions and dense clayish soil. It’s home to many species, including the Bengal tiger. Since the ground is so wet and dense, little oxygen can reach the roots of mangrove trees, so one of the ways that they manage the area is by utilizing specialized roots that grow up and out of the ground to absorb more oxygen. <br /><br />I remember meeting a man on an adjacent barge after we set sail. He said that his loaded ship may have to wait an entire week until it cleared customs before they could get rid of their cargo. He and several others were excited to talk to me in the few minutes before we left. Later that evening, a member of the crew named Igbal was enthused to communicate with me. When I know a little Bangla and the other party knows a little English, I find that we can meet halfway for a good conversation. When there is enough motivation to communicate, as so many Bangladeshis had, language differences cease to be a huge issue. I find that hand motions also help.<br /><br />The accommodations on the boat were great. It had two floors, one with tiny but comfortable rooms and another with ample space for group gatherings/meals. The food was delicious, and the bathrooms were perfect for me (Indian toilets available). I also was ecstatic to see that river water was used to refill the toilets. No water is wasted that way! It was amusing to see the toilet get filled with opaque brown water after flushing when the river had been stirred up from stormy weather.<br /><br />Having Dr. Atiq (director of BCAS) with us was a brilliant experience. He prompted so many great discussions about the environment, Bangladesh, and its citizens. There was also ample time for us to ask him questions, and we were in the perfect environment for it, being able to point out by hand some examples from lectures/discussions in the surrounding areas. I remember seeing how expansively flat the land was, yet how sharply edged some of the coastline was, having been eroded by lapping water. From making sand castles at the beach, I know that sharp surfaces like that are very unstable, and it seemed like at any minute more coastline would sink into the water. It wasn’t difficult to predict that only a small increase in water level caused by a large storm could inundate a huge area with flood waters.<br /><br />One thing I took from so many of Dr. Atiq’s sayings was that there is no right solution. There are always costs and benefits to any action or environmental process. The annual cyclones are needed to irrigate the mainland (especially rice paddies), but also it can flood drinking water sources with brackish water. Floods are needed to bring in nutrients to the crops and bring fish closer to the coast, but it also brings in saline water that can be damaging. Preventing any of these processes will both cause and prevent damage. Fortifying embankments may prevent coastline erosion, but it also may prevent damaging flood waters from escaping back into the river. Lack of any action however leaves many to the whim of catastrophic environmental processes which are now becoming increasingly dangerous due to a changing climate. I suppose the first step to any situation is first knowing the context of it. Although we were presented with many problems and few solutions, it illuminated the overall situation in our minds of the influence of the environment on human life and livelihood. <br /><br />I remember constantly feeling like I needed to be doing something about what we were hearing. There were so many issues presented to us, and at each mention I felt like I needed to jump out of my seat and do something about it. I needed to remind myself that my purpose was one of investigation; figure out the context of the situation before action right?<br /><br />Unexpectedly our plans (and safety) fell into question. Cyclone Aila emerged from the Bay of Bengal, and as we heard of its approach, it was evident that we were going to feel some of its effects since we were so close to the coastline. Its effects were so unexpected that we had disembarked to explore a village without predicting that pre-storm flood surges could affect our area. That was exactly what happened, and we ended up isolated from our boat by the flood waters. Our group hopped onto land and was guided through some paths to the main part of the village, but an hour later when we turned around to head back, the first part of the village and its paths were flooded. We were hundreds of feet away from our boat with nowhere to go but farther back as the flood waters continued to swell. Fortunately we were able to communicate with a crewman onboard to send a speedboat to pick us up. The Bangladeshis around us seemed very calm, maybe because an occurrence like this is not to be unexpected. Some were actually making a great time of it and excitedly casted their nets into the water; the flood waters had stirred up nutrients and the fish were feeding.<br /><br />Getting caught in the cyclone was one of the highlights of the trip for me. It was not something that made me feel happy to observe, but it was prominently influential in my experience of what a natural disaster actually means. It was incredibly appropriate for us to be left flooded in the village, being able to observe firsthand how rapidly the water had risen. I remember seeing the coastline actively fall apart while we were waiting for the speedboat to arrive. A brick pathway of the village was collapsing brick by brick into the river. Someone had placed each of those bricks very carefully at one point in time, and now in a matter of minutes it was gone, before my eyes. And that is a firsthand experience. <br /><br />I understood Dr. Atiq when he said that if it could be done, he would have scheduled a cyclone in for our group. The village in which we had just set food had no piece of visible land left when we boarded back onto the boat. Observing that occurrence was likely as close as the group could have gotten to actually feeling the effects of a natural disaster like that, and through this we become more personally aware of what it means to mitigate one. Because of this we also have a more informed perspective of the linkages between climate change, development, and livelihood. Effects on citizen livelihood can be imagined through observations of damaged infrastructure (eg quickly-eroding brick pathway), setbacks associated with its repair, and influenced means of food and monetary income (dirtied rice fields, lost livestock). A changing climate brings more extreme and differently-timed disasters. Occurring at a more frequent pace would bring about calamity because of less recovery time; occurring at an erratic pace would also be more damaging due to unexpected timings. This coupled with a stronger storm intensity is a set of changes to which the security of livelihood and the prosperity of development couldn’t stand a strong chance. With stronger and more frequent floods, how could anyone keep a coastal brick path in one piece?<br /><br />A quick response to such a disaster is crucial to prevent loss of life. Most of the deaths caused by cyclones don’t actually result from the cyclone itself but from the aftermath of it, over days without proper food, water, or medicine. From what I could gather from Dr. Atiq and others from BCAS, it seems that Bangladesh has a grid of NGOs (in fact, the most of any country globally) that effectively administer first response aid quickly after a disaster. Evidently these responses have been improving in effectiveness over time as death tolls have generally decreased per disaster over time. <br /><br />Because of their limited resources, NGOs generally cannot continually issue such aid over a prolonged period; it seems as though that governmental programs generally pick up where the NGOs leave off with longer-term aid programs. Although many NGOs implement long-term projects (like livelihood development programs), the general bonus NGOs offer is immediate response, and the benefit of governmental programs is a larger pool of resources. The scenario seems therefore to dovetail rather nicely in theory.<br /><br />However, an interesting quote from Dr. Atiq about the relation between NGO and government programs is that the NGOs regard the government as a compliment to their efforts, but the government regards the NGOs as a supplement to their efforts. It seems from this that the government adopts a more government-centric perspective to aid issuing. This perspective may have consequences for what kind of aid is issued and how it is issued. If the primary concern is the agency that is issuing aid, then the recipients of aid may be neglected intentionally or inadvertently in some way. In our translated conversations with villagers, it seems that low governmental mitigation effectiveness can be anecdotally supported: The government received a bad grade from the general consensus. This deteriorated regard may be due to aid measures being ineffective, insufficient, or infrequent. In general though, the system of aid delivery in Bangladesh seems to be quite powerful, especially when recent decreases in loss of life due to natural disasters are considered. <br /><br />These disaster mitigation efforts take quite a toll on resources and time. With regard to confronting climate change as an issue the whole country faces, it seems that the role of NGO and government sectors is to keep up with relief efforts and adaptation strategies in reaction to a changing climate. I imagine that neither the sufficient agency nor the power to confront the actual causes of climate change exist within the scope of Bangladesh’s potential efforts. I also don’t think it is Bangladesh’s responsibility. Addressing the causes of climate change is a tall order that lies most heavily in the lap of countries who have the power to do so. Bangladesh can only do so much; a significant modification to the global climate change situation can only be implemented if nations that are most heavily damaging the environment through high greenhouse gas emission and energy consumption alter their tendencies (the US being the #1 net and per captia energy consumer globally). Such nations it seems usually do no have to deal with the brunt of climate change effects like Bangladesh does. One of the reasons Hurricane Katrina was so devastating was likely our lack of experience in dealing with such disasters, however Bangladesh experiences such destruction on a more regular basis. I wonder how communication of such effects to larger areas of the US population would influence the way we as a nation tackle the causes of a changing climate. As the effects that one decision has on a different part of the globe become clearer, I hope that the perspective of national leaders and policy makers accordingly becomes less focused on individual national needs and more attentive to measures that account for the global collective as a whole.<br /><br />After a day of anchor to wait out the water currents, a trek through the muddy and buggy Sundarbans, a heartfelt farewell to Dr. Atiq and our boat’s crew/guides, and a day long bus ride back to Dhaka, we were preparing to head to the northern district of Gaibandha. There we stayed with GUK, an NGO that hosts programs in char areas. Chars are basically long islands that the river currents carve out; inhabitants migrate there because of fertile land and open space. After time passes, a community is established that hopes to remain in existence despite the high risk of flooding characteristic of char areas. <br /><br />We also visited a BRAC site; BRAC is a huge NGO in (and outside of) Bangladesh that implements an array of livelihood support and rural advancement programs. During our time there, we had the chance to interact a great deal with the surrounding community. Whether it was visiting villages, engaging in translated conversations with the villages, seeing the effects of the NGO programs at work, or even drinking chai with locals after a makeshift football (soccer) or cricket game, we definitely got a taste of the country that not just any tour group experiences. <br /><br />The visit to GUK and BRAC was also tremendously beneficial in the way I conceptualize mitigation efforts. I can gain very little from lectures on these issues in comparison to the perspective that is afforded from firsthand experience. We observed a village organization meeting at a char village and were able to ask the participating women questions about now the NGO’s programs have influenced them. The general response seemed to be very positive, especially with regard to infrastructure restoration. It was good to see the projects that GUK was implementing too, including latrines, garden areas, storage structures, and even solar panels. With such a small electric requirement and lengthy distance from a power plant, the village electrical needs are best accommodated by a few solar panels, a solution that is of course also more sustainable and environment-friendly than drawing from non-renewable sources. Such infrastructural installations are undermined by natural disasters but are crucial to livelihood in terms of physical health/nutrition and income. <br /><br />Women seem to be the target of so many aid organizations, including BRAC, Grameen Bank, and GUK. For example, the village organizations through which BRAC and GUK arrange programs are always have female members; Grameen Bank also issues its loans to solely to women. With flowering village livelihoods resulting from NGO programs which these women organize, we have observed accounts that these females are regarded with more respect by the community. As a result, it seems that their social status has improved over time and that they have become more active agents in their lives and livelihoods (a less-common sight in Muslim-dominated countries). However, I have also heard accounts of men controlling the decisions of the aid-receiving women. In such scenarios, not only do men continue to dominate the social scenario behind a mask, but also there is increased opportunity for abuse though coercion. The quality of female agency and societal position takes a step back in the face of such possibilities. I have also heard that the directive behind restricting loans to females is contestable. Although it may appear as if female empowerment is the main motivation at hand when loans are made exclusively to women, it is also possible that women are targeted for loans because they are more “domesticated” and therefore more easily held accountable for repayment. These possibilities of exploitation and continued female control and abuse complicate the situation of realized female social position. I like to hope that net positive change is being made over time though, and President Obama has recently praised the women empowerment movements of the country. Social position is certainly an institution that doesn’t change overnight but rather one step at a time.<br /><br />At BRAC we visited village women who had received aid in the form of livestock coupled with structural additions to house the animals. What was so striking about BRAC’s method of aid implementation was its holistic nature. For instance, if cattle are given to a villager, knowledge about how to care for them, proper vaccinations, feed, and housing are also supplied. In this way, the effectiveness of the cattle as a measurement of livelihood restoration is increased. It was thrilling to observe how this holistic approach to livelihood restoration was well received by the villagers and how it has enabled them to manage their means of livelihood. It is the difference between giving a man a fish and teaching him to. A cow is a cow and it only prolongs life for a short while, as would an amount of monetary compensation. A cow backed with the mechanisms of a sustainable and healthy life (feed, housing, vaccinations, and owner education on breeding/care) becomes an opportunity for owner income and nourishment over a prolonged period, perhaps even a lifetime. <br /><br />This is where sustainability launches into the picture as a necessity for positive change in the face of a changing climate. The effectiveness of allocated resources is obviously influenced by its sustainable components; this is something that I have acknowledged through my experience in Bangladesh. Without the physical and educational means to house, feed, and breed livestock, animals are as unsustainable as a monetary compensation. Contrastingly, when money is used as a quick means of reimbursement or repair, a lack of resource effectiveness can be observed. Many would criticize the US welfare program for its lack of sustainability; monetary compensation unfortunately does not provide the means to a sustainable livelihood. It was an eye-opening experience to see how thought and planning behind livelihood enhancement can afford tremendous results; however, even such accomplishments can’t face a climate that is changing with as much momentum as ours is. I suppose that a nation is driven to find the most-effective answers to the calls of its citizens when calamity is so often knocking at the door. Such environmental disasters coupled with a high rate of poverty (about 40%) have taught the average Bangladeshi how to effectively use what resources are available. Although maybe often not afforded with much, they are certainly masters of what they have. <br /><br />Hopping over the border into India only became a possibility a few weeks before we left for Bangladesh. I had overheard Caitlin saying after class one day that she was going to stay in Bangladesh for two more weeks to visit a family friend. My ears immediately perked up; only two weeks is such a short time to stay in an area like that, as interesting and as far away as it is. Although I had been told that the group fare we were using would prevent us from traveling separately, I inquired further to find out that it could work out for me to stay longer if I arranged it through the Emirates office in Dhaka. I prospect shook my parents, and I received immediate “absolutely nots” from them. I found a volunteering program in Kolkata, India that would take me on short notice on a short-term basis to teach English and Math to slum children. The organization is called CRAWL (Children Resolution and Women Learning); it’s an NGO based in Kolkata that hosts programs for volunteers to teach slum children math, English, and computer skills as well as programs for women awareness and street children assistance. Although I left for Bangladesh without my parents’ blessings for a longer stay and not knowing if my return ticket could be rescheduled, I was pumped at the possibility of being back in India. <br /><br />Much of my free time in Dhaka I spent at the Emirates office, which was fortunately within walking distance from our hotel. The office had to wait for a few days to receive confirmation from another office in the US about the change; then I had to get an encashment certificate for $200 for the booking change since they didn’t accept debit and my emergency credit card was expired. In the end, the return ticket was booked for two weeks later only the day before I was originally supposed to leave with the rest of the group. Although my parents would have rather me come home with everyone else, I was confident that this opportunity was not one that I would be comfortable with passing up. Our perspectives of the situation were entirely different; call it whatever you wish, I was interested in following the energy inside me that resonated, “let’s do this.” <br /><br />Although my experience with the Muhlenberg group was enjoyable, I looked forward to being on my own after everyone left, and part of that was definitely nervousness as well…There I was after saying goodbye to my friends and professors, in the same hotel lobby, suddenly with little to rely on but my suitcase, an open-minded curiosity, and a one-way ticket to Kolkata for the next afternoon. <br /><br />That evening I stayed with a friend, Zeeshan, who I had met at a club one evening while out with a few other Muhlenberg students. That night was alone an entire story, leading us through aimless dusty city streets trying to avoid cow dung, to a massive party with dancing and flashing lights, and finally as guests in some of the wealthiest company in the city. Zeeshan and I had kept in touch over facebook, and he offered for me to stay at his home with some friends that evening so I didn’t have to book another night in the hotel. His car and personal driver was also a welcome alternative to public transportation. Atif, also my age, was fond of driving though so the driver sat in the backseat with me, enjoying the ride but grimacing every time Atif scraped the underbelly by going quickly over speed bumps. Richshaws and taxis are fun but often it’s difficult to communicate with the drivers and it’s sometimes also dangerous. I remember earlier another student and I got a rickshaw ride, but the “brief trip” ended up being over an hour and half due to intentional detours, and an obnoxious price was demanded before we were taken back to the hotel. <br /><br />It was a blast to get to know Zeeshan and his friends, Atif, Arman, Manil, Mikaile, Shabab, and Yaman. We spent the evening driving around, visiting each other’s homes, going places to eat and get ice cream, and joking around with each other. Many of them were coming back from their colleges for the summer, some from schools in Vancouver, New York, and London. Time spent with locals is always a learning experience, and it’s incredibly enjoyable when we relate with similar age and easy communication.<br /><br />The flight over the border was only about 20 minutes. Although it would have been nice to see the Bangladeshi countryside by bus to Kolkata, my time was limited and the ride would have taken about 16 hours with traffic and inevitable river barge intermissions.<br /><br />My first steps onto Indian soil sent a wide smile across my face. I hadn’t ever imagined that I’d be back so soon! The airport was hectic with crowds trying to get though the swine flu check point (everyone had to get their temperature taken etc.). Despite the delay, a representative from CRAWL was waiting for me outside of the airport holding a “Matthew Balaban” sign. The taxi ride to my guest house was lengthy with all the traffic—I’d always wondered why there were so many boaty taxis and not the space-efficient auto rickshaws populating the streets. My room was already booked through CRAWL at Calcutta Lodge, located in Sealdah, a very populous and central part of the city. The lodge also had a cafeteria where I could eat three meals a day—accommodation, food, and the two week volunteer fee was only US $260, the price of only a day or two accommodation in New York City I imagine. <br /><br />For what felt like the first time, I was quite on my own in India. With no study abroad program or teachers to answer to, the independence made me feel like an actual resident. Everyday had its own agenda; sometimes I and a few other volunteers would meet at the nearby train station to assist in the street kids’ project, and once or twice a day I would take the 20 minute local train to Kardah where I would do teaching. Free time was my own to prepare lesson plans, do laundry, converse with guest house attendants, and explore. It was my prized accomplishment to know where to charge my phone with minutes, where to buy the tastiest and cheapest mangos, which trains to take, when my station was coming up, and how to generally navigate the area. <br /><br />Kardah, in the northern part of Kolkata, was where I did the teaching. CRAWL has found about a dozen and a half slum children nearby who wish to be educated sufficiently to get admitted to main public schools. Three days a week we had an hour of math and an hour of English. There was a syllabus I had that listed what to teach and which books to teach out of. The structure was sufficient, however the children’s attention was lacking much of the time. Maybe it’s characteristic of kids that age (about 10-15), maybe it’s my lack of teaching skills, maybe it’s how boring nouns, verbs, and fractions can be…whatever it was I realized that I definitely needed to cultivate patience and hope that in the end at least something was learned. I guess you never can predict what exactly a student will take away from a lesson, but I imagine most of the time it’s something that wasn’t planned for prior. Who knows, maybe it’s just the “Baa Baa Black Sheep” song I taught them during that one arts-and-crafts day. <br /><br />In addition to getting to know the children through broken English responses to math problems and shared laughs before and after class, the trains were great places to strike up conversations with locals. Although Kolkatan curiosity toward foreigners doesn’t come close to the bright stares I grew accustomed to in Hyderabad and in Bangladesh, you learn to tell who might welcome a conversation (basically I tried to find people my own age). Two shoe shiners at Kardah station, Subash and Kishore, come to mind when I think of those train rides. While waiting for the train back to Sealdah, we always found the time to practice their English and my Bangla, even including the present-progressive tense. Even when verbal communication failed, smiles, hand motions, and laughs filled the empty spaces for a good time that was easy to look forward to. <br /><br />It’s fascinating to see people get on and off the trains, especially during rush times. Sealdah station is arguably one of the busiest and most crowded in all of India, and when the train finally stops, like a war the mass of sardine-smashed train-riders meets the mass of hopeful train-loaders craving a seat. It does not matter if the train is still full, everyone still tries to push their way on for a seat, and you can imagine the shoving and stumbling that takes place. Pregnant women and fragile senior citizens beware. <br /><br />A few days a week we’d also meet for the street kids’ project right at the Sealdah train station. After setting up a small area where kids would congregate to color and play games, I and a few other volunteers would lead them to the washing station to clean up with supplied soap and toothpaste (toothbrush being the trusty right index finger). Later we would line everyone up to receive a small meal, usually jelly and white bread sandwiches and a sweet like chocolate milk, a sure way to get the crowd instantly excited. After the kids had been fed, the extra food would go to the clamoring street-dwelling adults, who tended to be burdened by some sort of physical or mental handicap. Lastly, the rubber gloves would come on and the unorganized medical kit would be opened as a line of multi-aged individuals suffering from some sort of wound awaited treatment. Usually on legs and feet, many had boil-like wounds that likely sprung up from the lack of sanitary conditions. Treatment included disinfecting with iodine and anti-bacterial spray along with a band-aid or cotton gauze. Whatever covering was applied, tape had to be wrapped around somehow to keep it from falling off—with all the humidity and sweat, no dressing would hold unless anchored with tape wrapped around the entire appendage. It proved to be difficult when someone came to us with a head wound. I imagined the pain to be incredibly intense as solution was applied to these open wounds; everyone including the kids rarely even flinched. Maybe they’re used to sucking it up and tolerating pain—it sure did make my job easier anyway.<br /><br />Back at the guest house, I became fast friends with not only a few traveling residents but also with the crew manning the place. Whenever I’d walk past the front desk, I’d greet the attendant (maybe a few years older than me) and often would stop for a conversation about anything from the differences between our cell phones, to this girl he likes, to how hot it was. The cafeteria was always a good time; the cooks loved to talk about anything in between their dish preparation, and if they were busy it was a pastime of mine to enjoy the overhead ceiling fan and the company of the cashier, who liked to burn incense, watch the cricket game on a miniature black and white television, and shout jibberish to the servers. On slow days everyone would come out to the main seating area to watch the cricket game; that sport sure is a crowd pleaser. I’m sure it’s a welcome break to the work that they’re doing even late into the night. When the day is finished they all found a place on the floor or pushed some tables together for a resting place, no blanket necessary due to the extreme heat. The next day in the same clothes, frequently accented with grime, the process would begin again. Generally from what I hear they didn’t overly enjoy the job, but were happy to have work; most of them came from a neighboring state but worked and lived there in Kolkata for maybe 10-11 months of the year; most were mid twenty in age, although two were only about 15. <br /><br />Although my singing taste buds would be the first to tell you that Indian food is my all-time favorite cuisine genre, I lost my appetite during my first week or so in Kolkata. I was partially expecting that, as it happened when I first arrived last summer as well. I guess it’s the only side-effect that Indian sanitary standards afford me; everything about you seems to adjust in India, sometimes that requires some time. I was sure to make the point to my cook-friends that although their piles of rice, lentil soup, and chunked curried vegetables were a few of the delicious reasons that I was eager to be back in India, my stomach felt like a miniature coin purse and needed to figure out what was going on. By the second half of my stay though, gorging at the cafeteria, street-side stalls, and Lonely Planet restaurant suggestions was as welcome as a vacation. <br /><br />I learned the value of a ceiling fan. In the extreme humidity it was the only thing that would dry your clothes, put you to sleep at night, and keep you moderately sane while indoors. If the power failed one night, that was definitely not a good night. I’d venture to say that I sweated more during those two weeks than any of my entire previous summers. Even when I’d be standing on the train at 6 am going to Kardah, the sweat would be dripping off my face and even seeping though my pants. Even though I tolerated it well, one day while exploring a busy shopping street in the central part of the city I realized how heavily I was suffering from heat exhaustion, feeling overwhelmingly dizzy and fatigued. I found the nearest shopping mall and ducked in for a half an hour or so, the air conditioning proving to be one of the most pleasurable god-sent wonders imaginable, right alongside the water dispensed by the chilled cooler at the guest house—pure heaven after a long day. Water of course was a must throughout the day, and although I drank like a fish, it was shocking to not feel the need to urinate at all until right before bed; everything was seeping right out through my skin. The liter water bottle I carried actually was a simple seltzer bottle from Giant Eagle, a grocer by my house in Pittsburgh; lots of people in the villages of Bangladesh and the street-sides of Kolkata found it entertaining to hold it and read what the label had to say. One of my last days there it was accidentally or intentionally taken at Sealdah station while I was treating wounds—a perfect end to its lifetime in my hands, as I wanted to bring an Indian water bottle back to the US anyway, and I’m sure it would be quite a prize in the hands of a street child. <br /><br />During one of my weekends I went to visit a friend, Ankush, from last year at the University of Hyderabad. His home is only a 3-4 hour train ride north of Kolkata city. Of course he showed me all around his town, Berhampore, including his favorite sweet shop, selling delicious multi-colored and -shaped morsels that were 25 times less expensive and more tasty than the Indian sweets I can get back in the US. We also spent a lot of time at his home talking about anything from cricket to the government to our futures to how excited we were for dinner. His mom’s cooking was definitely one of the reasons I wanted to visit, generously providing an assortment of vegetable, fish, and rice dishes with any meal. Now that’s guaranteed to put a smile on your face, but leave room for your smile to grow wider and your stomach to grow larger as the sliced mangoes are brought out for dessert. Mangoes are an Indian marvel of which I was deprived during my off-season semester stay last year, but this time around consuming multiple ones everyday quickly became a personal endeavor. There were days I must have had over twenty. Ankush and his family taught me about all the varieties, and I ended up learning about the tastes, colors, shapes, textures, and sizes of about 6 different kinds, including langla, mulamjum, sadulla, chompa, and sarenga. Ankush and I also took a brief trip to visit the palace at Murshidabad, near to his home. The stately palace is known for its thousand large doors; it was also the first court of the British presence after the colonialization process started. From there the capital of the British Raj was established in Calcutta, after being relocated to Delhi. Although my time visiting Ankush was a tasty experience, I needed to head back to the city with only a day or two more left in India, and Ankush had GREs to study for; he’s hoping on getting admitted to an institution in the US. I spent about 99% of the trip back with my eyes glued to the passing landscape with its palm trees, thatched-hut villages, and pristine farmlands, as always accompanied by a token cow grazing lazily.<br /><br />A final memorable experience that comes to mind was when I ventured into the heart of the city (navigating street tram, bus, and underground metro) to get my camera repaired which had suffered a fall in Bangladesh. The Nokia professional said to come back the next day, and it would be repaired as long as the total fee was under rs. 2500, otherwise I would need to give permission to allow a more costly restoration. The bill turned out to be rs. 2400. My initial reaction included a hint of anger, thinking that he intentionally charged me the maximum amount. Thinking about it a few days later, I realized that the story could have gone a different way: The fee may have been rs. 2500 or slightly higher but he decided to save me the hassle of giving permission to continue and needing to come back a third day. It made me realize that we never know what the whole story of any situation is, not only because we don’t have access to another person’s perspective but also because we are embedded in our own. Wherever anger comes from, more often then not it seems to spoil the mind with ruminating cognitions that aren’t even well founded. In the Buddha’s words, “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.” <br /><br />Just like I didn’t know the story behind my camera repair fee, it’s hard to gauge how influential my presence was for the CRAWL slum children. Although I enjoyed getting to know them and trying my hand at teaching them something new, two weeks is certainly a very short time. Maybe pluralizing nouns and multiplying fractions wasn’t as ultimately influential for all of us as the memory of the overall experience as a whole. Maybe it’s summed up in the crayon-colored card a student gave me on my last day: “To Matt Uncle, Come back again, all students miss you.”<br /><br />After a final mango, some last minute souvenirs, and some quick but heartfelt farewells to my new guesthouse friends, I was off to the airport again, this time back to Dhaka. While waiting for the plane I made sure to call any other friends in India from last year on my cell phone that only receives service in the country. It was refreshing to be back in Dhaka, not only because the air felt cleaner but because the people seemed even more open and interested in conversation than in Kolkata. It was also a funny feeling to be arriving without the Muhlenberg program guidance that I had a month ago. Fortunately I had gotten back in touch with Zeeshan who was happy to pick me up from the airport. As I waited I gazed at the crowd of Bangladeshis pressed against the fence that lined the pick-up/drop off zone. Every time I’d been to the airport I had noticed this strange crowd, and each time I wondered why they were there. Some people that I had asked said that they were waiting for their family members to come back. Others said that they wanted to get a glance of a foreigner. Whatever the reason, it was a haunting sight to see a crowd several people thick lined along the entirety of the fence with eager looks on their faces. The police had to shove them aside whenever the gate was opened for a car to enter the area. I wondered how the police decided who to let in and who to exclude. <br /><br />It was great to see Zeeshan again, and he had brought his cousin and Atif along as well. When I asked him about the crowd of people he said with a shrug that they’re basically always standing there. I asked how the police knew who to let in. With a smile he said “We had to pay them 20 taka [about 30 cents] to let us pass without a fuss, but they wouldn’t let the driver enter.” As we circled the lot looking for our driver, I chuckled at how differently things work here and how I would never fully understand that massive crowd.<br /><br />That evening I met more of Zeeshan’s friends and we engaged in the usual relaxing business of meeting for ice cream, lounging on the rooftop gazing at the city panorama, and enjoying the mangos, snacks, and other tasty dishes that the maids would serve. The air conditioning in Zeeshan’s house was a welcome comfort. That along with its stately appearance made the house feel very luxurious indeed. I made sure to eat my fill as it was my last day in Bangladesh, and I also enjoyed one last walk around the surrounding busy streets, attracting a very large crowd along the way. Every once in a while someone would muster up the courage to ask me a question, and soon there would be about four dozen surrounding curious eyes. Interestingly enough if a conversation lasted long enough it inevitably included topics like politics and religion. Emphasis was always made about advocating universal brotherhood and exercising religious tolerance (except unfortunately on one or two occasions with regard to the Jewish faith), and Obama as well was praised and Bush often chastised. I remember that day someone my age informed me that Hillary Clinton had broken her elbow the day before. Talk about being politically informed. <br /><br />Although it was difficult to say goodbye to everyone, this month in Bangladesh and India has made me realize that such places aren’t necessarily as far away as they seem. Upon reflection of the past year, I realized that we never know what the future will hold in store for us. I never thought I’d be back having these kinds of experiences again so soon—only a few months after having come back from India the first time. The future really is an unpredictable place, and excitingly so.<br /><br />Ready for yet another escapade on my return home, consisting of a flight back to New York (where I met up with my dad), a tram out of the airport, a subway train to Port Authority, a bus ride back to Allentown, and a long car ride back to Pittsburgh, I waved goodbye with a smile…A smile that showed how lucky I felt to have met all these interesting people, from lean village farmers to knowledgeable NGO presidents to giggly slum children to college students just like me looking for an exciting time…A smile that beamed triumphantly at knowledge and wisdom afforded through innumerable explorations and new adventures…A smile that had a better sense of who the person was making it…A smile that expected to see these friendly faces again somewhere down the line in a future that will fold into its story even more interesting characters, tasty food, unexpected turns, and fresh experiences. <br /><br />Namaste and Assalam walaikumMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-35361924010238287552009-08-08T00:09:00.003+05:302009-08-08T00:29:19.267+05:30Final 2008 experiences in India; Retransition back to the US and schoolSo there was a great deal of debate with my family over whether or not I’d return home right away; although I was scheduled to come back on December 16th, many wanted me back earlier in light of the recent terrorist attacks. The perspective of safety here again is different; during my time here there has been some sort of attack every month…although this one was one of the largest (if not the largest) in the country’s history, it was an attack that all the same you learn to cope with, living in a country where the risk of such an occurrence lingers much of the time, especially in urban areas. The problem also was that I had specifically planned to travel for much of my remaining time with Melissa, who was presently in Nepal and unreachable for communication. The plans were a few days in Calcutta, a day at Ankush’s house, 5 days in Sikkim where Bikram lives, Gaya (the tree where Siddartha meditated and became the Buddha), Varanase (great views of the Ganges etc.), and Delhi where I’d meet up with Sumedha for a day. After some struggle, I decided at least to go to Calcutta and then decide there what I would be doing after. That way I could meet up with Melissa and help her find alternatives for travel and also spend at least some time with everyone before heading home. <br /><br />Our group consisted of Anu, Jonas (from Sweden), Bikram, Melissa, Ankush, and me. For some reason I was abnormally tired on the train and slept for about 14 hours that night. I certainly welcomed that situation, as the train ride in total to Calcutta was about 26 hours. I spent most of my waking hours standing or sitting by the open door, watching the fields of Orissa go by. We also all played a game where we each had a name on a piece of paper stuck to our forehead and each person had to ask “yes” or “no” questions to see if they can guess the person. Last time Bikram had written “Watson” on my piece, like from Sherlock Holms; it had taken a while for me to figure out and he thought that this time around I’d have an easier time with “Satan.” Not really. Simple questions like “Does he exist?” or “Does he live on Earth?” “In space?” or “Is he alive?” “Dead?” all yielded hesitant answers like “…Maybe” or “For some people, yes, others, no.” Not really getting anywhere and growing hungry, I said I was stepping out of the train at a stop to get something to eat. Everyone immediately implored me to keep guessing or at least take the paper off my forehead…they knew it wouldn’t be the best label to have stuck on you while walking around in public.<br /><br />We arrived in Calcutta after dark. Heightened security at the Howrah station was evident; in addition to armed camouflaged guards everywhere, there were sandbag-stacked circular walls equipped with machine guns at the front of the station. It was there where we met Melissa, who had been traveling through Nepal for a week beforehand. She looked pretty beat up, yet satisfied, with her mammoth backpack, clothes that hadn’t been washed in many days, and bandaged twisted ankle. We were really excited to have been able to find her, but decided to wait to catch up and all after we had reached our hotel. It was there that I also called my mother to let her know I had arrived; she told me that the high school cross country team that my brother runs on just qualified for the national competition. I knew how much of an honor that was and told all of my friends, some twice, about it.<br /><br />I was glad to have Ankush with us, he knew exactly where to go in the city to find our hotel rooms and knew the appropriate cab prices etc. Calcutta is unlike other Indian cities I’ve been in and immediately struck me as the first city I’ve seen in India that reminded me of cities in the US. First of all, there are few rickshaws and transportation mostly consists of boaty yellow cabs and cars. There’s also a big lit up suspension bridge over a river by the station and visible tall buildings packed closely that I saw when I glanced over the river. There are also wide sidewalks on either side of the road, great spaces for walking or stands that would sell anything from a haircut to fruit to sweets to fabrics to chai. The chai there is served in these clay cups; it was a big deal for Anu, who had seen them on television but never been able to actually drink out of one. It was also fun to smash them on the ground after finishing; I stowed mine away though to take back to the States. <br /><br />That evening I found an internet café where I tried to cancel my flights to and from Delhi that I had scheduled for about a week and a half later. I was also hoping to find out if the funds could be transferred to a different flight like Indigo Airlines will allow. I called Air India and was given a different number to try. After calling it I was directed somewhere else. Then somewhere else. Sometimes the line would disconnect (hung up upon maybe?), sometimes the new numbers wouldn’t work on my cell phone. Sometimes I couldn’t be understood…there are few things more difficult than giving my last name over the phone to an Indian. I had to restart at least a dozen times and no matter how slowly I went, all of the ‘a’s were very confusing. It was comically difficult. It got to the point where IF someone would answer the number I was dialing and IF he or she could understand me, I’d immediately start begging whoever was on the line NOT to give me a transfer number (which never worked) and answer my simple cancellation inquiries. That kindof didn’t work either and so we all decided to go have Chinese food.<br /><br />Our hotel room was wide and spacious, but not very tall; I couldn’t stand up without having to tilt my head to the side. Ankush and Bikram stayed at a relative’s house; Jonas and I were in one room, and Melissa and Anu were in the other. The next day after my cold bucket shower we met up with Ankush and Bikram who greeted us with a box full of sweets, for which Calcutta is well known. My favorite was oval in shape and dark gold in color; it had a uniform dense and crumbly consistency except with a small gooey center. The texture of it in my mouth was one of my favorite parts; it was so dense that it felt almost like having peanut butter in your mouth, but slightly grainier. The taste was hard to describe, something like a thick cake maybe.<br /><br />That morning we walked around the main part of the city and found Ankush’s favorite restaurant/bar (called Oli’s) that was well-known for its non-veg foods. The multi-story, packed together buildings we saw had lots of character and age, but at their bases were modern businesses, such as brand-name clothing or stores, Hallmark, and a Jet Airways office. I decided to investigate my options there for rescheduling my flight while the others went to a palace that was built for Queen Victoria. I was able to change around my international flight, but my domestic flight to Mumbai still had to be rearranged. I attempted to consult Air India again on a pay phone; although I had even more difficulty than the previous day, I was finally able to get an answer! My flight couldn’t be refunded in any way. At least I knew now.<br /><br />Over the past few days I had been considering exactly when I was going to opt to head home. Although I was excited to see Ankush’s home with delicious foods and the beautiful Sikkim where Bikram lives, I also knew how badly my parents wanted me home. They were adamant about my return; although I was across the world, it seemed like a battle that I simply couldn’t win. I decided ultimately on scheduling my flights for the next day while we were all still in Calcutta; after we left the city for Ankush’s home it would have been much more difficult to get to an airport. Walking into an internet café, I transferred the funds from my Delhi Indigo flight to a new one back to Hyderabad within ten minutes and printed out the itinerary. Then I changed the international Jet Airways flight for a fee of $100 and called my Dad to reschedule the flight from Newark home since it was under his credit card. We decided to keep my Mom out of the loop and surprise her with my arrival. I got a strange feeling knowing that I’d be leaving India within such a short while. It was like I was distant from what was around me, as if it were more evident than ever that this was not home and I didn’t quite belong there. <br /><br />Walking back to meet everyone, these two people approached me and started talking at me extensively. Embedded within their friendly engagement were tales of their misfortune, how someone had stolen their things etc. The conversation on my end didn’t go much past one or two word answers, and I kept walking. Following, they started asking for money. I promptly refused politely. Over and over. That’s just how I approach it. I hate it when I see people that don’t acknowledge beggars. I guess if you can’t handle it, it’s easier to just ignore them. That definitely doesn’t necessarily prevent them from begging at you though! At least if you let them know you’re not giving anything, you acknowledge that someone is trying to communicate with you. If I were begging and someone blatantly refused to acknowledge me, I’d be pissed. Although I can’t control the emotions of people, and refusing to give to a beggar’s face may or may not make him or her more or less angry/upset, refusing to communicate in the first place sure doesn’t help anything.<br /><br />I continued to search for the Victoria Memorial. Looking like I was searching, a man walking next to me asked if I needed help. I told him where I was going; he said he was a janitor there and would show me the way. Really funny and helpful man. A few minutes later Ankush called and said they were at the Sikkim Office getting entry permits. The man knew where that was too and redirected me. We talked the whole time about Calcutta and these elementary school kids he was teaching and my travels etc. He took me right up to the Sikkim office entryway and politely asked for a donation for his students, if I saw it was fitting. No one knows whether or not he actually had these students; there is no way to know and that’s not the point. I gave him rs.50 because he was a friendly, unobtrusive, and humble man; who knows, maybe he’d even get his students something. Whether or not that ultimately was the case, he deserved it and guided me right to where I needed to go. That was reason enough. Although he asked for rs.100, he was grateful for what I gave.<br /><br />My friends were distraught to hear of my decision. It wasn’t completely out of the blue; Melissa had been trying to figure out what she was going to do with herself during the days that we had scheduled to travel together after I had told her that I was probably leaving. It’s just that leaving as soon as the next day was like a smack in the face. The worried, abject looks on their faces at the thought of not seeing me again for quite some time, if not at all, and hugs they all started giving sure didn’t make things any easier. <br /><br />That evening we met up with Ankush’s brother and all went to a delicious Bengali restaurant. The food was delicious, included in the dishes we ordered was fish and all sorts of things cooked with mustard oil, characteristic of Bengali cuisine. <br /><br />The next day we ventured around some of the less-upscale parts of the city. This was more what I had imagined Calcutta would look like, with grimy walls, many people, and tiny shops, sometimes covering an area less than maybe 3 square feet. We went to a museum and then a café where the college students in the area frequented. There Anu got a phone call from her older sister, calling to let her know that she was going to be married. Anu was shocked and very excited, then jokingly she became upset at her sister for not telling her about the engagement sooner. Melissa was feeling ill, so she stayed at the café where everyone would meet back up after I had left. The rest of us, stepping onto the street, got some sugarcane juice before heading back to the hotel so I could gather my things. It was time to go. <br /><br />Ankush, Anu, Bikram, and Jonas accompanied me to the airport. On the taxi ride there I took a video with my camera of the streets, trying to take in every part of the environment. At the entrance to the airport I said goodbye to everyone; although everyone was joking like normal, there was a definite sense of heaviness in the air and I could tell how upset everyone was to see me go. Although I had intentions of coming back at some point to visit, no one ever knows what is going to happen in the future. As I stepped into the airport to check in, tears leaked out of my eyes. <br /><br />After many security checks, I boarded the plane, less excited than on my first Indigo Airline trip to Jaipur several weeks ago. I felt very heavy, like the enthusiasm had been drained from me, and slept the whole way back to Hyderabad. <br /><br />I got a bus back to Medhiputnam. It was exciting for me to be back in Hyderabad; it felt like home. I knew it, its quarks and idiosyncrasies; I was familiar with its people and how they acted when I walked down the street; I was acquainted with my favorite parts of the city, like Medhiputnam, where my friends and I had been so many times. I stopped at a sweet shop on the side of the road and purchased something that looked like my favorite sweet from Calcutta. It didn’t taste the same. I guess Calcutta is known for its sweets for a reason. <br /><br />I was able to locate a shared-auto back to Gachibowli; a shared-auto (basically a larger auto rickshaw fitting roughly 7) is a great option of transport because you are able to sit down (unlike often on the bus), it’s cheap, and you can see the city out the window very clearly. The auto looked practically new, with cushiony seats and a solid metal frame that looked freshly painted. Inside on the way back I struck up a conversation with some folks from Yemen, they were excited to speak with me and were very curious about what my thoughts of the city were. We had a friendly conversation for 15 minutes or so before they disembarked. Back at Gachibowli I stepped out of the auto and started to walk away. After 20 seconds or so I realized that I had neglected to pay for the ride; I ran back to the driver and offered him money, but he waved his hand at me and said the fee was already paid. As he drove away I was confused until I put the pieces together. My new friends from Yemen had asked where I was going specifically when they got off, and talked to the driver for a few seconds; although I didn’t realize it at the time, they had paid my fare.<br /><br />Back at school Mr. Das was more than willing to let me sleep in an empty room at the guest house overnight; there was only one other student there, Tess, and it was eerie to see the usually chatty house so quiet and empty. <br /><br />Before retiring that night I visited Gops one last time and ordered my favorite usual, paneer masala and veg noodles. I ate alone, as none of my other friends were there, but the food was just as good as it always had been, since Ankush first introduced it to me many months ago. As I left, I tossed the remainder of my roti on the ground for the dog eyeing me nearby hungrily.<br /><br />The next day I was slightly alarmed to hear that a police officer had been shot while in pursuit of a suspected terrorist in Hyderabad the day before. I needed to go into the city that day before I left, but wasn’t sure if that would be entirely safe. It seemed that renting a personal taxi for the day would be the best bet, as it would be the fastest mode of transportation and also would be able to escape quickly if something unexpected were to occur. <br /><br />My driver, Chandrah, was very nice and willing to take me anywhere I needed to go in the city. First we went to a bank where I cashed my traveler’s checks into rupees. Then we went to Abids where the main post office was. There I had my tabla set prepared to be shipped. It was tied and wrapped several times in this burlap covering, the edges of which were held together with melted wax. It was going to cost only about $40 to have it shipped to the US, taking about 40-50 days. I could have had it flown over in like 15 days, but that would have required twice as much cost. We then stopped at a bookstore so I could find “fragile” stickers for the sitar I was bringing home. After, we stopped at a suitcase store so I could get another one for all the extra luggage I needed to haul home. Lastly, we stopped at a tailor’s shop in Lingampally where I was having kurtas tailored. The last time I was there they didn’t have everything finished; this time again, one was not finished. Although I vocalized how upset I was not to have all the articles finished now after two deadlines, I agreed to come back to pick up the last one in a few hours, hopefully by then it would be done. <br /><br />Chandrah dropped me off at school and would be back in a few hours to take me to the airport. I spent my last few hours in Hyderabad organizing my things and eating at a tasty Punjabi restaurant in Gachibowli. Eggplant masala and malai kofta, my favorites. The waiters were so incredibly kind and full of hospitality, qualities that I feared I would miss back in the States. I knew what I wanted, requested it to be spicy, it came promptly, I let them serve me just like they always do, I ate with the hands just like I had grown accustomed to, and I was excited to get the bowl of warm washing water after the meal was finished. I asked to have the leftovers in a take-away parcel so I could give it to Batia and Rachel who would be back at the guest house shortly after I had left. They share my affinities to eggplant and malai kofta. <br /><br />Back at school, it was time to say goodbye to Mr. Das and Tess; at least I didn’t have to say goodbyes to every student like those who left early had to. I was grateful for all of Mr. Das’ guidance that he had delivered throughout the semester, and before I got into the car I gave a hug to Tess. She was the first student I had met when I first flew into Hyderabad in mid-July, now she was the last I was saying goodbye to. <br /><br />I nodded one last time to the gatekeeper at the entrance of the university, and said my silent goodbyes to the city as Chandrah headed to the airport on the road that had been under construction the whole semester, but had just recently opened up. <br /><br />At the airport I offered Chandrah a healthy tip for all of his help that day; I insisted that he take more than his fee, but he politefully yet solidly refused. Jet Airways personnel handled my two huge suitcases and sitar. At the check-in counter I asked to have 3 bags checked; the website claimed that students traveling back to the US before the end of the year had the option to check another bag. Fortunately she agreed and assured me that the sitar would reach its destination unscathed, as I begged for its safety. It was as easy as that, no extra fees or anything. I tipped my luggage handler some extra money, and his partner asked for a tip as well (he had done nothing to assist me with my bags though). Such an occurrence has happened before, and I did just what I had previously decided to do: Smile and say that the tip can be shared if the man who was actually working was willing. The man accompanied me to the counter where I changed all of my rupees into American dollars. I wish he hadn’t, he was in awe (practically laughing) at how much money I possessed and requested that I give him some. I continued to smile at him and simply denied every time he asked. <br /><br />After security, I stopped at the chaat vender and got kachori one last time. I would surely heavily miss its spicy, tangy, buttery, and salty taste. After talking with a food vender for some time who was excited to become fast friends, I boarded the plane and was off to Mumbai.<br /><br />The airport there was as crazy as I remember after when I first arrived in the country: planes everywhere, areas being renovated with dry wall corridors, and beautiful blue granite bathrooms. On the bus ride to the international section of the airport, I became friends with the guy sitting next to me who was on his way to vacation on an island. He had been many places, including Dubai, where he explained that a private helicopter had been waiting for him at the airport to take him to the hotel. He seemed full of passion and was really excited for his trip. We continued to talk for probably over an hour in the airport and exchanged addresses as we parted ways. <br /><br />While waiting for the plane, I explored around, called my mom to let her know that I was hiking in the mountains of Sikkim (she thinks I’m staying in India for about 11 more days, I couldn’t wait to surprise her), and flipped through some books at a stand. <br /><br />The plane was just as I remembered it, stunning service, comfortable seating, great food, blankets, drinks, space. I felt jaded though. I had expected all of those things to be there. I had wondered throughout the entirety of my stay in India what it would be like to be on this plane back home; what would I be thinking? Who would I be missing? How would I have changed? Now here I was. It didn’t feel as glorious as I had imagined it to be, maybe partly because I was still thinking about India, not where I was going. Maybe I hadn’t expected it so soon. I had changed things around two days ago, and now suddenly the time to close my unforgettable experience had arrived. <br /><br />I played the language game that I had tried on the way over in July. I recalled how I remembered the voice on the game sounding, I recalled how excited I was to actually learn Hindi at the same time. Now I had been through Bhavani’s class, the numbers were easy. I knew all the answers. I missed the freshness, the novelty…the anticipation of what would be coming. Now, I knew, I had been, I had seen, I had done…and the anticipation transformed into nostalgia. <br /><br />I made it through the Hindi game easily. None of the other languages felt interesting. Neither did any of the other games.<br /><br />I spent a lot of time sitting and thinking. <br /><br />In Brussels I considered buying chocolates for my friends and family, but didn’t care for the prices. I was converting prices into rupee values, and was significantly dissatisfied with every one. <br /><br />I walked around a lot, looking at things, watching people. No one was watching me though. Things were different here. Sitting and waiting for the plane, I tried to make a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He was Indian, I guess I felt most comfortable talking to him. He lived in New Jersey. An excitedness and engagement was missing from the conversation. <br /><br />Seven hours later we landed in Newark. I thanked every steward and stewardess that had served me and admired with a smile the spaciousness and fanciness of the premiere class before stepping off the plane. The corridor was cold. I stepped onto the terminal and followed the stream of people heading to customs around a walkway that was shielded from the rest of the airport waiting area with glass. I had seen this before, while I was waiting in those very seats I could see, eating my final meal in the US (a salad) before heading off to a very different world for half a year. It all hit me in a flash, all the anticipation I harbored while waiting anxiously before I had boarded my large plane. I had watched this stream of people disembark, behind the glass; they had just arrived from India, many had saris on, less than a day ago they were in the far-away strange land I was heading to. I wondered when I would be disembarking just like they were, when I would be part of that crowd, how I would be different, what things I would have experienced, how it would feel to be back in the US after so long. It all had seemed so far away. I wondered, and now I was one of those people behind the glass. Here I was, just like I had imagined. All that excited anticipation, and now here I was. <br /><br />I started to cry.<br /><br />Tears silently rolled down my cheeks even as I waited in the customs line for the man to check my passport. I felt empty. I didn’t want to have the recent experiences I had lived fade away into the past. What a unique opportunity, an opportunity of independence, of friendship, of exploration, of curiosity, of unexpectedness, of living the distant corners of unimaginable places and all manner of conversations with friends and even quick remote acquaintances, all of whom I cherished, yet all of whom I felt slipping away. The page had turned, and indeed unique chapter had been closed.<br /><br /><br /><br />The journey here had been just over 24 hours. It didn’t make up for the difference between the two destinations. That flight should have been days and days.<br /><br />It was difficult getting up and down escalators with two fully sized rolling suitcases, a backpack, and a sitar. Also getting into crowded trams. <br /><br />The woman at the registration counter was loud but helpful, she told me where to go to see if my sitar could be gate checked back to Pittsburgh, and she said she’d let me balance the contents my suitcases so only one was overweight. She was also very frank about the luggage and overweight charges, which cost more than changing around all of my Jet Airways domestic and international flights, and certainly more than the free-of-charge checking that Jet Airways offered.<br /><br />The sitar was just barely the maximum size for gate-checking. It was an interesting sight, the sitar going through the x-ray machine. The security guard was curious about it. It was a very different sight to him. The sitar made it back ok in the end, in tact and in one piece. The cold and lack of humidity though have caused two of the 17 strings to snap thus far.<br /><br />The men sitting behind me on the plane were large, and they were loud. They loved to laugh. The magazine in my seat had so many things available for purchase in it. <br /><br />The Pittsburgh airport was so familiar it seemed dull. A neighbor picked me up. It was very, very cold outside, my sandaled feet weren’t used to it. <br /><br />My parents were watching Eric’s competition in Oregon. The house was empty. It was just as I remembered it though, and as soon as I had entered it felt like I had never been gone. My bed felt like a cloud. I wasn’t used to such a soft mattress though; it made my back curve uncomfortably while I was resting. <br /><br />I woke up very early, it was still dark outside but I felt like I needed lunch; it felt like I needed lunchtime at Gops. <br /><br />I headed out to Muhlenberg to visit friends. They were surprised speechless to see me. They didn’t really know what to say, and neither did I. There was an end-of-the-semester party that evening. I was so incredibly disoriented and would end up speaking in a lost, monotonous voice anyway, so I opted not to be a part of the crowd of loud people in the apartment. I fell fast asleep on the floor in my friend’s room.<br /><br />I attended Muhlenberg’s Candlelight Carols service. The Christmas music was familiar although confusing, maybe because I hadn’t had Advent to feel “in the spirit.” Muhlenberg’s chapel and organ console had seemed so incredibly distant not so long ago. I was tired. It was hard to follow my friends who ran up to me afterwards, excited to see me for the first time in many months. <br /><br />They ask me how India was, I smile and say that it was amazing, and then we move on with our lives. <br /><br />Back at home my parents were coming in a few hours. I lit the fire and the Christmas tree, and waited by the kitchen counter. My dad knew I was there, my mom didn’t. She saw me as she came into the living room; she froze and an astonished, slightly concerned look came about her face. I could tell she was very confused, muttering questions like “…how?” Smiling, I gave her a hug, and could tell that she was very glad to have me back. <br /><br />It was a nice winter break, visiting with friends, many of whom wanted to hear all about India. One conversation with a friend and his family about India lasted almost 6 hours. Christmas was hard, I became sick for many days. I saw Slumdog Millionaire, elements in it made me long for where I used to be. The movie was nice but its representation of the country alarmed me and was not entirely congruent with my experience there. Media like that likely contributes to conceptualizations of the country that prompt a question like “why would you want to go there?” in a conversation about my abroad experience.<br /><br />I got used to being at home, playing the piano, keeping up with friends from India periodically through Facebook, visiting with close friends and brother just like always. It was nice to see all of them again.<br /><br />Now I’m back at school, it’s been about two weeks. I’ve found it incredibly difficult to readjust, and a large part of me is refusing to readjust, probably out of fear that if I fall into what I’m used to here, what happened in India will be forgotten, will move into the more distant past. The ways people interact annoy me. What they wear annoys me. I don’t feel motivated to do academic things yet. I feel confused, and my academic direction feels lost, as I ask myself questions like “can I stay here for another year and a half?” “is this what I really want to be doing?” Things like choir continue on just like always, I realize that it did just the same even while I was away last semester. Teachers engage me just like I remember from last spring, it seems so familiar now, but it had seemed so distant in India. <br /><br />I like to exercise when I can. I like to do yoga. Things like that calm my mind and allow me to focus because I feel ok with where I am and what I’m doing. It’s very distracting when you question where you are and what you are doing so much. It is also quite a fruitful learning experience. <br /><br />My assignments, papers, and duties remain uncharacteristically disorganized in my mind and in my room. <br /><br />I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; it shouldn’t be. If it were, what would that say about how deeply an experience like that affected me? Such a readjustment is a process, and the most difficult part of traveling it seems. Although being in India for the first time was disorienting and confusing much of the time, feelings like that are not as difficult to deal with as these. <br /><br />I don’t feel like I’m a different person. I’m still Matt. But the study abroad experience has added and transformed dimensions of who I am. I feel like the country is part of me; if I were there again I imagine I could navigate and adjust to the mode of life there as if I had never left, although the country continues to change rapidly. I think more about what I actually value, not just what I should be doing. “Shoulds” can cause so much pain. I think more about the present, trying to do things I feel I need to then and there rather than put them off for later; no one knows what the future brings. I’m still working on lifting myself from the past, being the emotional and nostalgic person that I am. I feel in tune with a sense of what “different” means. The condition of so many things in India contradicted how I would try to make sense of them, so many things were inexplicable and incomparable to my frame of mind. Sometimes you can try to explain something or figure it out for ages, but nothing fully grasps the idea until you conclude with “it’s just different,” as unhelpful of a description that may seem. I remember trying to figure out the role of caste in Indian society; as I continued to investigate while I was there, I realized everyone’s own opinion, perspective, and setting within and about the caste system was different. Not only is India different from the US, but it is different within itself. So many multiplicities are there, so many unique influences that cause me to answer most any question asked to me about India with an “it depends” response. You question what you know, you question your conceptualizations of others, because you know more than ever how different people can be from one another, how people are influenced by so many things that contribute to their own unique perspective, yet also how we are all the same, sharing feelings and endeavors. I had to learn to set judgment aside in India, I knew nothing, and could judge nothing, interpret nothing. In a situation like that, you question yourself. You question the validity of your values; you question the way you see the world, your own perspective. There is no Right way, just a path that fits you; maybe this is why a solution sometimes isn’t as helpful as the right question, which prompts a potential world of knowledge and growth. People act the way they do because of reasons that influence specifically them, that’s what individuality means, and that individuality is only lived by one. <br /><br />“Variety is the spice of life,” that’s one of the things that India had to say to me.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-44767007288268434892008-11-28T22:36:00.003+05:302008-11-28T22:42:44.147+05:30The semester comes to a close<p class="MsoNormal">So after the Diwali festivities, right around the corner was Halloween.<span style=""> </span>When initially deciding on a semester to go abroad, I ruled out the fall because of the seasonal changes that I love coupled with my favorite holidays: Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the first half of advent (including lessons and carols at Muhlenberg).<span style=""> </span>It was only after heavy consideration of other factors like limited course selection opportunities at school and post graduate scholarship applications that I decided to go in the fall. <span style=""> </span>I have to admit that hearing about apple picking, colorful leaves, and overnight frosts has issued my largest pangs of homesickness, but I guess I knew that when I signed on.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Halloween for me is all about how the environment and individual mentality is prompted to change.<span style=""> </span>It’s a time that signifies entrenchment into yet another school year and provides a time to react (is that the right word?), in the sense that there’s this whole focus on being scared, scaring others, and in general shifting the focus of mentality onto a world that’s opposite to overtly excited festivals that characterize any other holiday.<span style=""> </span>All the while there’s a hushed anticipation for the continuation of fall into winter and all that it brings.<span style=""> </span>It’s all part of a cycle, just like the seasons, where each turn offers its own dimension to the shape of the wheel.<span style=""> </span>Halloween to me is quite a landmark in the yearly cycle, and it was very strange to be disconnected from it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had been listening to music that I usually do during the Halloween season to kindof put myself in the spirit of things.<span style=""> </span>Additionally the exchange students were planning on some sort of costume party.<span style=""> </span>Although I enjoyed seeing Halloween enthusiasm, I wasn’t planning on dressing up in costume; that’s not really why I’m excited about the holiday.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of the best parts of the day for me was watching Tori open a package from home and take out all my candy favorites, including licorice, starbursts, and candy corn; her aunt had sent them, probably with only a faint hope that it could coincidentally arrive on the day of Halloween.<span style=""> </span>It was quite the treat to have some; I haven’t had candy like that upon arriving in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> where sour candy doesn’t seem to exist, just various candy bars and caramels.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Packages from home are probably the most exciting thing ever; a few weeks ago I received one from my friends, Bekki and Dan, at Muhlenberg.<span style=""> </span>They sent my favorite snack foods (consumed shortly after opening the package) along with Halloween decorations (which I excitedly put on display throughout my room) and other jokey things which I could talk about but really are only funny to our circle of friends.<span style=""> </span>I took everything out of that package with a continual awe that everything had come <i style="">all the way</i> from home.<span style=""> </span>That means that no matter what it is, it’s three times as exciting.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That afternoon I went with some friends to the supermarket near the university to shop around for extra candy and costume supplies.<span style=""> </span>I was able to find but one lonely beige pumpkin in the vegetable section; I was intending on at least trying to carve it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at the guest house that evening I helped some people get into their costumes (which included painting John entirely blue as a smurf and encasing Matt in cardboard and tin foil to look like a robot).<span style=""> </span>I also got a butcher knife from the kitchen and carved my lonely pumpkin with triangle eyes and a toothy grin.<span style=""> </span>I also separated out all the seeds from the pulp just like I always do.<span style=""> </span>We lit it outside in front of the hostel with an oil lamp used just the day before for the Diwali festival.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">All dressed up and taking bags of caramels with us, a dozen of us or so paraded around the campus wishing people a Happy Halloween and giving them candy.<span style=""> </span>That’s not how the tradition works, but I guess we were forced to improvise.<span style=""> </span>Once or twice we could get an Indian to say “trick-or-treat” before we handed over a caramel, but that was usually coupled with a confused face that didn’t quite know exactly why there were strange foreigners dancing around and dressed as who-knows-what.<span style=""> </span>It was also difficult for many to grasp what Halloween was when we’d try to explain it; I guess that makes sense though when you contrast it to the deity worship and pujas that constitute a lot of the holidays here.<span style=""> </span>Whether or not the students of the campus knew what was happening, they were at least excited to take candy from us, which is the most I could have hoped for I guess.<span style=""> </span>It was such a different and comical sight to see all of us parading around the international student’s hostel, a typically quiet place where girls aren’t supposed to enter as the night draws on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at the guesthouse we watched “The Nightmare Before Christmas” which concluded our festivities.<span style=""> </span>It had been a funny little Halloween.<span style=""> </span>Although I was a tad disoriented outside of the normal ‘cycle’ of things, I was really appreciative of how uniquely everything had turned out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After Halloween it was time to get pumped for the elections.<span style=""> </span>About a dozen exchange students went on Wednesday morning (Tuesday night) to the nearby Novotel, an upscale hotel where I’d been before to visit Joe Nicholas.<span style=""> </span>There in one of the conference halls they had a large pull down screen with the CNN coverage of the election process as well as a really tasty breakfast buffet.<span style=""> </span>It seemed that everyone there (all foreigners) was cheering for Obama, and after every state that became recognized as ‘blue’ there followed claps and cheers.<span style=""> </span>The other exchange students and I were interviewed, filmed, and photographed, as I guess it was exciting for reporters to get the perspective of actual Americans.<span style=""> </span>Several of my friends and I ended up on the front page of the ‘Deccan Chronicles’ newspaper; and I specifically was quoted throughout the article.<span style=""> </span>They didn’t quite get my words 100% right (I never did call Obama a “happening man” as the article explained), but it was no big deal because it still conveyed our general opinions about Obama’s election.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at the guest house that afternoon everyone was shouting and hollering with each other.<span style=""> </span>Many students were pumped about how the representation of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> was finally changing into something they approved of and supported.<span style=""> </span>My Indian friends were practically equally as excited; Obama’s a big hit over here.<span style=""> </span>The elections for the university were actually coincidentally held on the same day…I overheard a conversation that afternoon between two students:<span style=""> </span>“SO did you hear about the election results yet?”<span style=""> </span>*No, I think the university is still counting the votes*<span style=""> </span>“No, not that, OBABMA was elected!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Although my Indian friends were congratulating me on the election, I hadn’t had a say in the matter; my absentee ballot didn’t show up until a few days after the election.<span style=""> </span>I had sent in the request form about a month ago, but I guess I didn’t realize how unpredictable the mail service was.<span style=""> </span>I chuckled under my breath when the ballot finally reached the guest house, as I tossed it into the garbage.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Thursday, the big SIP cultural performance had finally arrived.<span style=""> </span>All of the lessons we’ve been taking were to be put to use in a big performance with the university public as the audience.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been taking lessons in sitar, tabla, and kathak dance everyday for about 3 months, and now finally it was time to showcase what we had all learned.<span style=""> </span>The performance was totally left to us, there was no predetermined program.<span style=""> </span>It was necessary to know who was performing during which acts, which order they’d be in, whether bouquets for the teachers would be ordered, whether mics or lighting was needed, etc.<span style=""> </span>I had never planned something like that before, and I don’t think any of the other SIP students really had either.<span style=""> </span>Unfortunately many were away traveling which made it difficult to get a head-count and to determine which acts were really being performed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The past week had been full of practicing…with three new things to learn, even if you practiced a little everyday, it adds up to a lot!<span style=""> </span>Whether or not I knew that the performance would be organized enough to even occur, I tried to put everything else aside to practice so at least if there were a show, I could perform my best.<span style=""> </span>The performance had kindof creeped up on me; all of the sudden there was this rush to put everything together, and it had its consequences.<span style=""> </span>My left index finger was constantly sore and blistering from the sitar; I guess I hadn’t had enough time to fully develop sufficient calluses.<span style=""> </span>At one point the sitar string literally cut into the skin while I was practicing and split it open like a bad paper cut.<span style=""> </span>Kathak was no piece of cake either.<span style=""> </span>Along with periodically suffering from what felt like bruises in the bones of my feet, the surface of my heels was going through some major trauma.<span style=""> </span>They just weren’t meant for such pounding I guess!<span style=""> </span>The entire heel was a blister, and continued to blister the more I would practice.<span style=""> </span>That meant I had blisters underneath and overtop the blisters I already had.<span style=""> </span>At some points during my lessons one would break open and leak out fluid on the floor.<span style=""> </span>During such points I knew it was time to rest for some time.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t used to being prevented from practicing because of physical discomfort; it was a strange thing to experience, and although it added to my feeling of urgency to put in enough practice by performance time, it also contributed to a sense of “well, there’s really nothing more I can do, so might as well just let things play out as they are going to.”<span style=""> </span>Chummah, it simply is what it is. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The auditorium was filled to the brim.<span style=""> </span>I’m not quite sure how the performance was advertised, but Indian students and teachers continued to flow in until there were no seats left; it was no small venue either.<span style=""> </span>Backstage was also equally as crowded with practically every SIP student preparing whatever art they had been learning; in addition to about 8 sitar players, there were maybe the same number of tabla players, me and Mindi dancing Kathak, about half a dozen Kuchipudi dancers, vocalists, and students doing skits for their Hindi class.<span style=""> </span>All were putting in some frenzied last minute practice, trying to organize the final order, or getting properly dressed; my costume for kathak took about 40 minutes or so to prepare, complete with makeup.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In general things went quite well, sometimes there were awkward gaps between acts (you can imagine with no dress rehearsal, you never quite know what’s going to happen), but nothing went so wrong as to stop the entire performance at least, that’s a plus.<span style=""> </span>The crowd really seemed to enjoy Mindi’s and my kathak, especially the difficult and rapid footwork.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Whereas the first half of the performance was us showcasing what we had learned, the second half was us displaying what we knew.<span style=""> </span>Included was a rap that the Sarahs had composed about <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, complete with a beat-boxer.<span style=""> </span>The crowd didn’t really know how to take such a performance; even though it was an awesome and funny rap and some Indians really enjoyed it, most offered hesitant applause and confused looks on their faces.<span style=""> </span>I also sung some pieces with Tori, Caitie, and Miykaelah; we’d been practicing some songs that we had all previously sung in school choirs in the States (mostly madrigals) and decided to show the university students the music that we would be singing at any given performance at school.<span style=""> </span>It was an interesting sight: us dressed up in sharvanis and salwars singing my favorite western choral works.<span style=""> </span>The performance was recorded on a DVD; if I can get it back to the States unscathed, anyone who would like to view it may!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That weekend was filled with final examinations for the yoga course I’ve been attending.<span style=""> </span>We had one day of internal practical assessments where we performed asanas for the instructors (memorizing those names in Sanskrit was quite the task), another day of written exams on the philosophy, physiology, and theory of yoga, as well as another day of practical exams issued by someone who had come from an external association.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know what to say for much of the written portion, but it was easy enough to write fluff that maybe the instructors would appreciate.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t invested in it as much as a regular class anyway; I don’t really <i style="">need </i>a certificate in yoga.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My feats during the examinations included performing a head-stand in front of the class for what seemed like about half a minute as well as cleaning the nose out by pouring warm salt water in one nostril to have it run out the other (fortunately we had practiced these things before).<span style=""> </span>After something like 12 hours of testing, I shifted my focus to classes, as final exams term projects were looming.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next Tuesday CIEE had a re-entry orientation at the Walden, the resort we had initially all stayed at two weeks upon first coming to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>It was really a unique experience to be back there and provided an interesting opportunity for reflection on how we as people and a whole group have changed over the past few months.<span style=""> </span>Nothing really was said during our orientation lectures that was shocking…I left with the same conceptualization that it will be hard to go back to the States, but there’s not a ton one can do about that. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">That night I started studying for my philosophy final the next afternoon.<span style=""> </span>We had covered many schools of Indian philosophical thought during that class and how exactly I was going to absorb everything this late in the game I wasn’t quite sure.<span style=""> </span>At about 10 pm I typed up all my notes into an outline (about 7 pages single spaced) and just reviewed it over and over.<span style=""> </span>I had fallen asleep on a chair in the guest house common room; Spencer was fortunately there to wake me up, knowing that I needed to study for the test despite how tired I was.<span style=""> </span>The next morning I crammed as much information as I could, walked into the exam, and vomited it all up.<span style=""> </span>That’s how my tests here have worked basically.<span style=""> </span>You always select from a list of questions to answer from, so rather than knowing everything, it helps to know some things very well.<span style=""> </span>Of course then you never know what will be on a test, and sometimes you’re left with having to write a response that you’re pretty much fibbing.<span style=""> </span>I was able to select topics that I knew well enough though, 3 long answer and 6 short answer, and left after three hours with a good feeling about it.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t have too long to relax, as it was time to travel again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hampi used to be the capital of the Vijayanagar Empire, which ruled in <st1:place st="on">South India</st1:place> up to the Mughal rule during the late medieval era.<span style=""> </span>It was an empire that retained its uniquely ‘Indian-ness,’ holding fast against the transient foreign power shifts of the north (first being ruled by Arabs, then the Mughals, etc.).<span style=""> </span>You hear from any traveler how beautiful it is, and I had wanted to go there until I first heard about it upon coming to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Ironically it was the first place I wanted to visit, but I didn’t get around to it until now, the very end of the program.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was traveling with Amanda, Tess, Julia, and Anuj (one of the Hindi peer tutor university students).<span style=""> </span>Although I had never traveled with these people before, we had become good friends throughout the semester, and I was sure we’d get along.<span style=""> </span>The seats that we had reserved were filled when we boarded the train; when we found a conductor he told us that our tickets had actually been upgraded due to open spaces.<span style=""> </span>I’m not quite sure what favored our sleeper tickets over the other passengers; Anuj seemed to think it was because we were foreigners though.<span style=""> </span>We were upgraded to A/C two tier, the most upscale I’ve traveled on train so far.<span style=""> </span>No only were there blankets, sheets, and pillows provided, but there were curtains each person could pull around his or her bed as well as reading lights and more space etc.<span style=""> </span>Quite the treat <span style="font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="">:)</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At a stop a foreign girl about our age approached us to ask where we had gotten our biryani dinners from.<span style=""> </span>I could tell right away that she was a really sociable person, and we all started talking.<span style=""> </span><st1:state st="on">Victoria</st1:State> is from <st1:country-region st="on">Austria</st1:country-region>; she had been living in <st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:City> for a week visiting a friend and was now on her own, traveling to Hampi and <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place> before heading back home in two weeks so.<span style=""> </span>She remained talking with us until we all decided to go to bed.<span style=""> </span>We had asked if she wanted to tag along with us during our stay in Hampi, so we were planning on meeting up again in a few hours when the train would arrive in Hospet.<span style=""> </span>Lying in my bed, the window was at my face, and I loved just lying and watching the moon-lit terrain go by.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The train, although an hour or so late initially in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:City>, was early to Hospet (that has happened before, and we had anticipated it, I guess they can make up for lost time in the night be speeding up or something).<span style=""> </span>It was 5 am or so and, sleepy-eyed and not wanting to get up from my warm covers, it was all I could do to check and recheck that I had all my stuff with me.<span style=""> </span>Although the station was dark, there was no sign of <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:State> and we imagined that she was still asleep.<span style=""> </span>The doors to the train unfortunately had closed behind us and locked; they do that to prevent people without tickets from boarding during the night.<span style=""> </span>We tried many cars, each one was locked shut.<span style=""> </span>Somehow Anuj was able to get into one and find his way to Victoria, who in fact was still asleep.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fully assembled, we easily found a rickshaw (the drivers know when the trains are coming in with tourists) to take us to Hampi, a 30-40km drive or so, for only rs. 100 ($2).<span style=""> </span>By the time we had arrived, it was light and we were able to navigate around the main Hampi bazaar for a guest house.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hampi is a pretty touristy place; not only can you usually find a foreigner walking down the road, but you can tell that the services in the area cater to a tourist population.<span style=""> </span>The souvenirs on sale, and food served at restaurants, the activities available, the prevalence of guest houses…you could tell that this wasn’t an <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> that we were used to.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That morning Julia, <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Amanda</st1:City>, <st1:state st="on">Victoria</st1:State></st1:place>, and I rented motor bikes for the day.<span style=""> </span>After our breakfast of nutella pancakes and banana coconut lassi, we were off exploring.<span style=""> </span>Although I had never driven a motorized bike before, the ones we rented were more like mopeds than what you’d think of as a motorcycle, and after some embarrassing practicing, we were ready to drive.<span style=""> </span>First we had to go get more petrol; the tanks hadn’t been filled for the whole day.<span style=""> </span>On the way there, <st1:place st="on"><st1:state st="on">Victoria</st1:State></st1:place>’s bike stopped working and refused to start even after we had filled its tank.<span style=""> </span>We rode back to the rental place and asked for a new one, which they provided at no more cost.<span style=""> </span>They also went to go pick up <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:State>’s bike that we had left at the gas station.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We were off again and stopped to meander at a site with stone ruins and a big water tank that we spotted.<span style=""> </span>After some pictures we continued to move onward; as I turned back to look though I couldn’t find <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:State>.<span style=""> </span>After a half minute or so she came around the bend looking frazzled.<span style=""> </span>Evidently her bike was malfunctioning or something; it wouldn’t start when she tried and suddenly it drove off with her partially on it, leaving her with a gash in her knee from falling and the bike itself toppled over down a bank.<span style=""> </span>She seemed fed up with her malfunctioning bikes and decided to head back to the room to rest for a while.<span style=""> </span>Amanda, Julia, and I continued on; we spotted a dirt path that diverged from the road and decided to see where it would take us. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">This dirt road continued for kilometers and weaved all through some of the most striking scenery I’ve ever seen.<span style=""> </span>I’ve heard so many compliments about the nature at Hampi. <span style=""> </span>When I had initially gotten there though, I was somewhat disappointed to see the same kind of surrounding environment that I was used to in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:City></st1:place>; upon seeing the environment outside of the populated bazaar though, my disappointment melted away into awe.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I guess I had expected Hampi to be very lush and green with maybe pretty flowers or something.<span style=""> </span>That was part of it.<span style=""> </span>What I ended up falling in love with though were the noticeable contrasts:<span style=""> </span>Not only were there lush green trees and streams, but also nearby there was complete rocky dryness.<span style=""> </span>Our dirt path would navigate its way through irrigated banana tree patches and flowing streams hugged by thick greenery, but also bouldery mountains towered in the distance, landmarks of a different landscape characterized by dusty gravel, prickly bushes, and dry rockiness.<span style=""> </span>It was like you could enjoy a desert and a pseudo rain forest at the same time; it made it seem like wherever you were was a unique oasis.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We continued on for a while, stopping periodically to take in the wide views and shocking landscape.<span style=""> </span>At an intersection we ran into a jaggery factory (not as big as ‘factory’ would lead you to believe, maybe only the size of a few rooms.<span style=""> </span>I first came across Jaggery in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mysore</st1:place></st1:City>; it’s made by boiling sugar cane juice to leave a solidified unrefined, tasty sugar.<span style=""> </span>The factory had four large (maybe 7 feet across) vats in which sugar cane juice was boiled and many ground trays to let it settle and cool.<span style=""> </span>The workers there didn’t know much English, but I guess we could kindof communicate with hand signals and the limited Telugu (Kannada and Telugu are similar Dravidian languages) and Hindi we know.<span style=""> </span>They seemed excited to have us as guests, as they offered us as much jaggery as we could fit in our hands.<span style=""> </span>Also they would roll actual sugar canes in the trays of sticky cooling sugar liquid to make this lollipop-like treat.<span style=""> </span>You’d eat it by scooping it off with your fingers; it had the consistency of gooey, warm caramel.<span style=""> </span>They also gave us sugar cane to eat; you have to bite/peel off the outer woody layer first before biting into the juicy center.<span style=""> </span>After gnawing on it for a few minutes, you’d spit out the remainder of the cane and take another bite.<span style=""> </span>We were there for a good hour and half.<span style=""> </span>Oh yes, I forgot, a worker asked me to marry her daughter as well; I politefully declined.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Filled with sugary goodness and sticky all over, we continued back to Hampi Bazaar.<span style=""> </span>Our phones unfortunately didn’t get any service in the area, so we had no idea what everyone else was up to, but we were able to find <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Victoria</st1:place></st1:State> in the room, good as new having showered and rested.<span style=""> </span>The four of us went for food nearby at the ‘Garden Paradise Restaurant.’<span style=""> </span>Eateries in Hampi are experts at providing terraced ground seating that overlooks a river or other nature scene.<span style=""> </span>I had last seen that in <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>; evidently it’s a feature that the tourist culture enjoys.<span style=""> </span>Who wouldn’t enjoy eating delicious food overlooking such magnificent nature?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After eating, we traveled back to our dirt path to climb up a huge boulder mountain that we had spotted earlier.<span style=""> </span>There were stone steps all the way to the top where a temple sat overlooking other rocky mountains with green leafy jungles at their bases, periodically interrupted by stone temples and palaces. <span style=""> </span>We watched the sun set and made it back to Hampi Bazaar before it got too dark.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back in the bazaar two men approached me, strangely dressed with colorful robes and turbines having a peacock feather poking out the front.<span style=""> </span>They asked if I wanted to see some magic.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t especially interested, but I had time because everyone else was in a nearby shop looking at clothes.<span style=""> </span>One of the men started singing and opened up his bag as he kneeled down.<span style=""> </span>His act consisted of ‘turning’ balls of metal into miniature idols by moving his hands around and stuff.<span style=""> </span>He also spit up about half a dozen golf ball sized stones into his hands, finishing with one the size of a small orange.<span style=""> </span>I had no idea where these rocks had come from; it was pretty intriguing.<span style=""> </span>The other man gave me a book with written names; next to each name was a country and a number.<span style=""> </span>He claimed these were tourists he had performed for earlier and asked for a donation.<span style=""> </span>Evidently the numbers listed were the ‘donations’ others had offered.<span style=""> </span>Although I was thinking something like rs. 10 or 20, all the other listed numbers were 100s, 200s, and 500s.<span style=""> </span>Feeling confused at what to do, I offered a 100.<span style=""> </span>The other man asked for another 100, but I told him one was enough.<span style=""> </span>You see they keep asking for more and more.<span style=""> </span>Even if you give a beggar a few rupees, he or she will unsatisfactorily ask for 10.<span style=""> </span>After the fact, the bike vender (his name is pronounced ‘keesh’) told me that they themselves wrote these names in the book with fake numbers.<span style=""> </span>It was an interesting ploy, one that fed off of the tendencies one has to go along with the crowd.<span style=""> </span>You never know what silly schemes they’ll come up with.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">After more shopping around, we reconvened at the restaurant we had eaten at earlier for dinner and lassis (yogurt drink with any number of different flavorings).<span style=""> </span>The restaurant had no chairs, just comfortable padded bed-like cushions on which you could lay or sit and chat or snack off of the low-level tables.<span style=""> </span>The music was also really good there; we ended up staying and talking for quite some time before going back to our room to sleep.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day we woke up kindof late; after a brunch at the ‘Mango Tree,’ a tasty outdoor restaurant that Lonely Planet recommends, and more wandering around the temples (including the huge one in the center of Hampi Bazaar) and banana tree farms, we said goodbye to <st1:state st="on">Victoria</st1:State>, as she was on her way to <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>I’m really glad we met up with her; she was a ton of fun to talk to and spend time with.<span style=""> </span>After having dinner at a rooftop restaurant, we took a walk around the bazaar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day I did more exploring: through a muddy banana tree farm, a dry dusty temple area, a raft ride across the river, and a hike up a mountain to the ‘<st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Monkey</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Temple</st1:PlaceType></st1:place>.’<span style=""> </span>Along the way I was sure to get some bananas and coconut that was being sold alongside the road.<span style=""> </span>Karnataka is known for its bananas and coconuts, and they were definitely the tastiest snacks I could ask for.<span style=""> </span>The <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Monkey</st1:PlaceName> <st1:placetype st="on">Temple</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> had amazing views just like I was expecting; it also had a slue of playful monkeys that would hop around, make noises at you, and even take your stuff if you weren’t careful.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Hmm, after that there were some rickshaw rides, more shopping around, more temple explorations, and finally we convened at the “Chill Out” restaurant, complete with my favorite cushion seat/beds and pillows, along with colorful paint and black lighting.<span style=""> </span>After a quick thali and a goodbye to ‘keesh’ (our bike rental friend), we were headed back to Hospet by rickshaw.<span style=""> </span>From there we took a bus back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:City>; all the trains were booked out when we had looked at tickets some weeks ago.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We got back to school on Sunday morning, after resting and unpacking my things, it was time to start preparing for the last internal examination for Indian Society that we had on Monday morning.<span style=""> </span>My notes for that class were completely unreliable, but I found out from some friends which essays and book excerpts we needed to read.<span style=""> </span>I had just enough time to read through them, highlight, and study some before walking into the test and vomiting all the information back up.<span style=""> </span>You feel just as good after these tests as you do after actually vomiting; it’s like your system is purged or something.<span style=""> </span>I guess that implies that the knowledge you used on the test is gone afterwards?<span style=""> </span>Maybe.<span style=""> </span>That kindof defeats the purpose though…whatever, I felt like I had learned something and felt accomplished after the test, so that’s got to mean something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Wednesday I had an Indian Philosophy paper due (fortunately we had gotten a week extension on it…).<span style=""> </span>The topic was pretty open-ended; basically you were to just choose something about Indian Philosophy and write about it.<span style=""> </span>That wasn’t to be as easy as just reiterating what we had learned in class, you were supposed to have a critical view on it etc. <span style=""> </span>I was perusing our textbook for quite some time before I could decide on a topic.<span style=""> </span>Basically I looked at how Buddhist thought progressed during its early development.<span style=""> </span>Turned out pretty well actually.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That paper was submitted on Wednesday; on Thursday I had a Medieval Indian History final.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately we had topics of study, so I went through my notes and typed out everything I could find on them.<span style=""> </span>Then, you know the drill.<span style=""> </span>Binge and purge, that’s how it works.<span style=""> </span>This three hour test actually only had 3 essays on it, each one was supposed to be pretty substantial.<span style=""> </span>There was one topic on the Bhakti movement in Western India, another on the movement in <st1:place st="on">Eastern India</st1:place>…I knew a lot about the Bhakti movement in general, so just wrote on that.<span style=""> </span>Hopefully she won’t notice I didn’t mention a specific region?<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was pretty wiped out after that final.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I napped or something, but as soon as it was feasible I needed to start studying for the Indian Society final the next day.<span style=""> </span>I was pretty screwed for that…my notes were really unreliable and there were lots of essays my friends said they had heard we should read to study for it.<span style=""> </span>I basically looked through all of them to decide which ones to read based on length and likely interest.<span style=""> </span>I had hoped to type out highlighted material, but just had barely enough time to highlight and review before the test.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was much happier the next day about the exam than a lot of my other classmates.<span style=""> </span>I guess sometimes it’s coincidence like whether or not you studied what ends up being on the exam.<span style=""> </span>My last essay was a killer; I even copied down my last paragraph to take away because I was so proud of it.<span style=""> </span>Maybe also part of my happiness could have been attributed to being finally finished with all my academics afterward for the whole semester…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was during this general time that people in the exchange program started to leave.<span style=""> </span>Kat left first, followed by Thy, Harrison, and Spencer who were heading to <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Nepal</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>That weekend more people trickled out to travel or go home.<span style=""> </span>I guess it never quite hit me that things were coming to an end; it felt like these people were leaving for a weekend trip and that I’d see them in a few days or something.<span style=""> </span>It was weird and didn’t seem final really like I would have predicted it to.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On Saturday Kaitlyn and I ventured into the city.<span style=""> </span>At about 9 am we took a train from Lingampally to Nampally (maybe an hour’s journey). Kaitlyn and I talked the whole way; she also felt kindof uncomfortable in the general class car (all the women sit in the ladies’ cars), so I wanted to keep her mind off of it by keeping the conversation going.<span style=""> </span>From Nampally station, we walked through Abids where we stopped at Big Bazaar (kindof like a mall?) to get some food items and movie soundtracks.<span style=""> </span>From there we walked to Koti, a section of the city with low price goods available for sale in small shops or on the street.<span style=""> </span>On the way we stopped at another music store to pick up more cds.<span style=""> </span>I was hoping to get all this music for some time now.<span style=""> </span>All semester I’d keep my ear out for songs that I liked in clubs, rickshaws, and random radios and would find out the movies they came from. <span style=""> </span>Loaded up with all the songs I could ever want and also a map of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> that I bought on the side of the street, we made it to Gokul Chaat in Koti.<span style=""> </span>Have I talked about chaat before?<span style=""> </span>It’s like snack food; basically like variations on samosas and other fried goodies covered in tasty sweet, spicy, and yogurt sauces.<span style=""> </span>It was as crowded as it was the last time I was there: completely packed inside and out.<span style=""> </span>Evidently it was the place to be to get chaat.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From there we caught an auto to the old city, the southern section of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:City> that’s predominantly more Muslim.<span style=""> </span>We did a ton of walking around there, looking at bangles, perfumes, fruits and juices, cloth, saris, and kurtas.<span style=""> </span>After that we took another auto back to koti where we got a bus to the Hyderabad Central mall.<span style=""> </span>From there we walked to the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">City</st1:PlaceType> <st1:placetype st="on">Center</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> mall and met up with the lady who has been giving me cooking lessons at her house; I had asked her to hold a copy of the newspaper with my picture in it.<span style=""> </span>She welcomed us with gulab jamun (my favorite Indian sweet), chai, and some much needed water.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After conversations and email exchanges, Kaitlyn and I walked to the bus stop at <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">City</st1:PlaceType> <st1:placetype st="on">Center</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> where we were going to try to catch a bus to Medhiputnam, a busy area of the city and common bus stop into and out of the city.<span style=""> </span>That’s easier said than done, especially at rush hour.<span style=""> </span>The buses were already packed by the time they’d pull up to the stop; a herd of people would then push their way trying to get a foothold of the bus steps.<span style=""> </span>It would then pull away as people would be dangling out the door, clinging onto any edge they could find.<span style=""> </span>Kaitlyn didn’t have so much trouble; the front of the bus (lady’s section) was less pushy and less crowded.<span style=""> </span>That’s a problem when you have a group with both a male and female needing to board.<span style=""> </span>With one bus all the Indians crammed for a foothold, and the abnormally tall American was left shaking is head with a grin watching it all thinking all the while *there is no way I can possibly get on.* <span style=""> </span>Unfortunately at the same time, Kaitlyn gets on through the front entrance.<span style=""> </span>Trying to choose between risking my life or breaking an established social norm, I boarded on the front of the bus so we weren’t separated.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">When we reached Medhiputnam, the bus situation was equally as dim.<span style=""> </span>Not being able to catch any of the 216 or 217 buses with route back to the university, we were left wondering if we’d ever get back.<span style=""> </span>I was talking to Kaitlyn when she got a confused look on her face and glanced behind me; I turned around to see what she was looking at and saw a bus with ‘University of Hyderabad’ written along the top.<span style=""> </span>Evidently it was a university bus that runs through the city specifically for students.<span style=""> </span>It was practically empty; a luxury amongst all the crowdedness of Medhiputnam.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t stop laughing as we got on at how randomly fortuitous the bus’ arrival had been; they mustn’t run very frequently, I mean I haven’t even heard of these university buses. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Let’s see, then on Monday I went back to the old city with Amanda so she could pick up something from the tailor’s, then we met people in Abids at a restaurant with really good food called Bagga’s which some SIP kids had stumbled upon earlier in the semester.<span style=""> </span>Bagga’s was actually like a gentlemen’s club with a ton of smoke and televisions playing cricket matches.<span style=""> </span>No women ever go there, except of course in our abnormal group of white kids.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It sure showed that they weren’t in the habit of serving women.<span style=""> </span>When Amanda ordered her dish, the waiter in broken English turned to Ben to say that they were out of it.<span style=""> </span>Then when Ashley ordered, he turned to Ben and me to ask if we actually wanted the food to be ordered.<span style=""> </span>That was so abnormal it was confusing.<span style=""> </span>He did it totally as if that’s just the way things are done there, in no way was it in a joking manner.<span style=""> </span>We thought it was funny though how narrow-minded they were being.<span style=""> </span>However I would imagine that at least one of the girls got upset that it was as if she had no voice at all. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wednesday I went with Rakesh into the city to get more chaat; we then met all our friends at Gazebo, a nearby restaurant/bar where we were all going to get together one last time before Rakesh and Knut (from Norway) left the next day.<span style=""> </span>Knut is a really awesome socializer, just always knowing something funny to say and bringing up odd and ironic expressions.<span style=""> </span>For example, evidently it’s a common childhood joke in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Norway</st1:place></st1:country-region> to ask what happened when two tomatoes crossed the road but one was run over.<span style=""> </span>The other turns around and says “hey, ketchup.”<span style=""> </span>I giggled when I realized that ketchup could also have been “catch up.”<span style=""> </span>What I laughed at harder though was when Knut explained that children in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Norway</st1:place></st1:country-region> don’t usually know enough English to know what “catch up” actually means, so they only get one side of it.<span style=""> </span>But the joke continues to be funny regardless.<span style=""> </span>I guess it doesn’t take much to make a good joke?<span style=""> </span>Also, evidently a word for “cheers” in German sounds the exact same as a word in Norwegian that you say in response to someone sneezing.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That night the attacks in Mumbai occurred.<span style=""> </span>Knut had heard about it over the phone from his girlfriend, but we all failed to understand the magnitude of the situation until I was woken up the next morning by my program calling to ask where I was and what my travel itinerary was for the during of my stay in the country.<span style=""> </span>I woke Knut up to ask if he was still planning on flying to Mumbai (scheduled for 10 am); our resident advisor also cautioned him, but he didn’t think that the heightened danger was enough to justify a change in travel plans.<span style=""> </span>He was meeting another SIP student there; fortunately we’ve been able to keep in contact with them and they’ve both remained fine.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s interesting to watch the difference between CNN and Indian-run news stations.<span style=""> </span>A common perception is that the attacks, although in <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region>, are an attack on <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">America</st1:place></st1:country-region> because of the alleged targets.<span style=""> </span>In an interview about that topic with an Indian (government administrator maybe?), he seemed actually angry that such a conceptualization was getting so much attention:<span style=""> </span>To him, although foreigners were definitely harmed, it was an attack on <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>:<span style=""> </span>the vast majority of fatalities was Indian, prized objects of Mumbai infrastructure were destroyed, etc. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The remaining half dozen-or-so students left in the guest house decided to cook for Thanksgiving.<span style=""> </span>It’s probably not what you’re thinking; such a meal is pretty difficult to imitate here.<span style=""> </span>We had whole wheat noodles (I was grateful, mostly all wheat here is white and refined), gazpacho, bread (leavened!), and green beans.<span style=""> </span>I also went on an epic quest to find pie.<span style=""> </span>There was one European bakery in Banjara Hills (a more upscale part of the city); fortunately they had whole pumpkin pies cooked, and almost ready to go (they had to cool first).<span style=""> </span>I was pumped about it, and I knew everyone else would be really excited too.<span style=""> </span>While they cooled I searched for an iPod charger at the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">City</st1:PlaceType> <st1:placetype st="on">Center</st1:PlaceType></st1:place> and other nearby malls.<span style=""> </span>It was pretty hard to find and reminded me of a scavenger hunt; each store would tell me the next would have it.<span style=""> </span>After visiting about 5 different stores, I finally found one and high-tailed it back to the bakery and back to campus.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was remarkably expensive (about $4) to get in and out of Banjara Hills; it would have cost about half for any other Indian, but when any rickshaw driver you ask won’t go beyond a certain price, it’s like a monopoly and you have no other choice.<span style=""> </span>I was too excited about the pies to be preoccupied.<span style=""> </span>Preoccu<i style="">pie</i>d.<span style=""> </span>Thanksgiving was enjoyable, we pulled all the tables together to make one big one and lit candles.<span style=""> </span>Although it didn’t really even remind me of Thanksgiving, it was a really fun time. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So then in my spare time the rest of this past week I’ve just been poking around the campus and city, getting things signed, stuff organized etc.<span style=""> </span>Things are still remarkably up in the air; I still need to pack; I don’t quite know where I’m keeping my luggage for the next two weeks; I don’t quite know if I’m traveling the next two weeks; I don’t know how I’m getting my sitar home (it will cost about $450 to ship it…not happening); I don’t think I’ll have time to say goodbye to all the people I want to; I also won’t get to eat all my favorite foods again before I leave; I don’t know where my receipt is for my bike.<span style=""> </span>Yeah, pretty unsettled.<span style=""> But somehow it will all work out.<br /> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s all part of the experience.</p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-4964693028991475442008-11-03T23:48:00.002+05:302008-11-03T23:49:57.087+05:30Rajasthan<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Last Thursday afternoon I was on my way to the airport to catch a flight to Jaipur, Rajasthan.<span style=""> </span>Most people take a cab to the airport, but there’s also a much less expensive bus service that operates out of certain locations in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>The closest one is in Hitech City; after a few shared auto rides I bought a bus ticket and visited the nearby Cybertowers to exchange some dollars into rupees, 47 per dollar that is (the economic troubles in the States have also caused a depreciation in the rupee value, in actuality everyday the USD is worth more and more rupees).<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Compared to the rs.+700 taxi ride, the rs.150 bus ride in combination with rs.5 auto rides was a good choice.<span style=""> </span>I got to the airport after dark, about 2 hours after I had left the university, but I still had time because my flight wasn’t due to leave until almost 9.<span style=""> </span>The <st1:placename st="on">Rajiv</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Gandhi</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">International</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Airport</st1:placetype> at <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city> is spectacular, I don’t know if I’ve written about it before but it’s less than a year old and its sleek look sure does say so.<span style=""> </span>The interior was also decorated with thousands of lights in anticipation for the Diwali festival the next week.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Diwali is a huge five day Hindu holiday that throughout <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> is celebrated by families gathering together, eating lots of sweets, decorating the house with lots of lights, and setting off tons of firecrackers.<span style=""> </span>So many “crackers” are set off throughout <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> that the emission of pollution is a growing concern.<span style=""> </span>You’ll read more about the extent of cracker quantity I experienced later on. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The policeman outside of the airport entrance wasn’t initially keen on letting me in; he wanted my identification and my passport.<span style=""> </span>When I only showed him a photocopy, he got really confused and couldn’t understand why I didn’t have the real thing.<span style=""> </span>I explained that I wasn’t leaving the country and that I actually was living in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>, but I guess he wasn’t expecting that.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t concerned, there’s no reason why I actually needed to have my passport; he was just giving me a hard time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After entering, I found Indigo Airlines check-in (not difficult, so many people were there to help) to register and collect my ticket.<span style=""> </span>Heading over to security, I stopped by one of the loud-speakers to listen to the music it was playing.<span style=""> </span>Some people gave me a funny look.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I kept my belt and shoes on while walking through the detector at security, but that doesn’t mean security was more relaxed than I’m used to.<span style=""> </span>Everyone was also required to stand on a stool and have a hand-held metal detector run over them while being frisked.<span style=""> </span>Additionally they opened my bag to look around in it a little.<span style=""> </span>No problem here; go ahead and see if you can find something interesting.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking away from security my jaw continually dropped for the next hour or so as I browsed around the airport.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t especially large, just really nice; and it had amazing food options.<span style=""> </span>And the music was great.<span style=""> </span>And the floors were so well cleaned that my feet slipped backward every step I took.<span style=""> </span>No one else in the airport seemed as excited as I was about the availability of my favorite foods, and I ended up cracking up at the idea of how strange I looked with my bright face and wide eyes.<span style=""> </span>Laughing only made it worse, and also funnier.<span style=""> </span>I ended up firstly getting kachori smothered in green mint sauce, red sweet sauce, and white curd.<span style=""> </span>For my second course at a different restaurant I had a special paneer dish wish vegetables and kulcha (a bread).<span style=""> </span>After, I got a dessert that was made of pink rose water, white milk, ice cream, spaghetti, and these slimy seeds that looked identical to fish eggs.<span style=""> </span>The dessert was recommended by an Indian I met who lives in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">England</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>We talked some until it was time for me to fill my water bottle up and board the plane.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The plane looked brand new, completely white with blue (indigo) seats.<span style=""> </span>Leg room was definitely limited; that’s probably because it’s an entirely Indian operated airline with passengers that average a height significantly less than my own.<span style=""> </span>The cabin was completely open, usually there’s some divider for bathrooms or class barriers or something but everyone on the full plane had a good clear view of the sole lurpy foreigner with curly blonde hair in row 6 who doesn’t seem to fit comfortably.<span style=""> </span>And who’s also entirely too excited to be on an airplane.<span style=""> </span>The sides of the cabin emitted clouds of hydrating mist before takeoff (which I alarmingly thought was smoke initially), and the stewardesses had a touch-screen monitor in the front that they used to dim the cabin lights.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I’ve wanted to see Rajasthan for quite some time.<span style=""> </span>Although I hadn’t even heard of Rajasthan before coming to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, accounts from people here about the desert climate, rare souvenirs, and delicious food have continually allured me.<span style=""> </span>Because it didn’t seem as if I’d have time after the semester ended to see it, this was probably my one chance, and certainly my last break in schoolwork and other obligations until crunch time at the end of the semester.<span style=""> </span>I’ve always wanted to go to <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Egypt</st1:place></st1:country-region> (it was actually my first thought initially in deciding where to abroad), and it was my hope that I was going to get the chance to experience a similar arid climate.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The flight took exactly 1 hour and 50 minutes like they promised, a good deal compared to the +36 hour train ride alternative.<span style=""> </span>I arrived in Jaipur at about 11 pm and easily met my friends who were anxiously waiting for me.<span style=""> </span>I first met Ashu and Ankit during my trip to Goa; we remained in contact, and because we had had such a good time in <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>, I figured it’d be great to visit them and have them show me around the city.<span style=""> </span>They were SO excited to see me, as if we had been best friends for some time before.<span style=""> </span>Ashu’s 26 year old brother, Pradeep, is a driver by profession, so having a car to get to and from the airport was no problem.<span style=""> </span>And also all throughout the city.<span style=""> </span>That whole night they took me to all sorts of places in Jaipur including monuments, lakes, cinemas, and malls.<span style=""> </span>None of it was open of course, but it was still fun to see.<span style=""> </span>We also met up with 2 more of their friends and ate at this open restaurant with ceiling fans low enough to give me a haircut.<span style=""> </span>By the time we headed back to Ashu’s house, it was 4 in the morning.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was hoping not to disturb his family, but upon my arrival, Ashu’s mother and father were up and excited to meet me, as well as serve me chai.<span style=""> </span>Ashu’s father is in the military and moves around quite a bit; the family has been in Jaipur for 3 years but is initially from Uttar Pradesh.<span style=""> </span>Ashu’s mother doesn’t speak very much English but loves to laugh and also loves to see me try to speak Hindi.<span style=""> </span>She’s one of those Indians who is 100% excited just that you can respond by saying “tora tora” (a little) when she asks if I know Hindi.<span style=""> </span>I can imagine her excitement, not many people from the States can speak another language, let alone a non-romantic one of a country that has so much English influence anyway.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After some conversation, I was completely wiped and fell asleep in Ashu’s bed; he insisted on taking a cot on the floor.<span style=""> </span>The next morning I heard Ashu’s father come into the room and do a short puja at the shrine in Ashu’s room; when I woke up soon after the shine’s oil lamp was still lit.<span style=""> </span>For breakfast Ashu and I had aloo paratha and curd.<span style=""> </span>Aloo paratha is layered flatbread that is stuffed with potatoes and spices, one of my favorites.<span style=""> </span>After breakfast I was introduced to Ashu’s sister, Kushboo, who is 18 and in her first year at college, hoping to go to dental school after.<span style=""> </span>I also showed Ashu’s mom my Hindi notes that I had brought to study; she loved reading through all of it and correcting the mistakes she could find.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I later was introduced to Ashu’s neighbors who also didn’t know much English but still thoroughly enjoyed my company.<span style=""> </span>They of course also made me chai.<span style=""> </span>The chai I had throughout Rajasthan had ginger added to it; that made it really tasty, and I had no problem drinking any amount of chai that any of my new acquaintances would offer. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At about noon, Ashu, Ankit, and I met up with another friend, Vivek, and we all went to a museum that displayed Jaipur’s history.<span style=""> </span>My favorite part was the section with musical instruments, most having variations on the pervasive stringed instrument with an array of tinier resonating strings underneath.<span style=""> </span>One was as big as a table.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After that we headed to the Amer Fort, one of my favorite places that we visited on the whole trip.<span style=""> </span>On the way there we rode through the “pink city,” Jaipur’s old city named after the old pink/terra cotta colored buildings that line the busy streets.<span style=""> </span>It’s such an experience; there’s people every which way, towering old buildings crammed together that look like they’re ready to crumble, goats, cows chewing on cardboard and other garbage, knotted nets of electrical wire, colorful fruits and scarves, and dust all around.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The Amer Fort is outside of the city and is spread across the dry mountains.<span style=""> </span>It covers a huge area which encompasses another part of Jaipur inside, and its walls undulated over the mountains as far as you could see, just like the Great Wall in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>Way at the top of the fort there were amazing views that only a picture could really describe.<span style=""> </span>Also the worlds largest cannon was there, said to be able to shoot a cannon 40 km; the first time it was used the tremendous recoil killed the individual operating it.<span style=""> </span>We visited the armory as well as the main royal area where the king and multiple queens would reside and spend their time.<span style=""> </span>The whole place was terra cotta-colored and the ground was dusty.<span style=""> </span>I could definitely tell how valuable water is in the area by seeing how dry everything was.<span style=""> </span>That made the green garden (the queens’ courtyard) at the top that much more shocking.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We took our motorcycles (don’t worry, I’m just a passenger) to another great vantage point of the fort which looked out over Jaipur city, and we stayed until dark, talking about all sorts of things including what we should do the next few days.<span style=""> </span>On our trip back home, we stopped at a famous sweet shop in the old city to get kachori and lassi (thick yogurt drink); Jaipur’s famous for lassi.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at home we had a delicious dinner before planning what to do the next day.<span style=""> </span>Ashu had been to practically no other places in Rajasthan and was eager to see a lot; Lonely Planet was of course a godsend with all of its maps and information.<span style=""> </span>It took a while to figure out, but we ended up planning to go overnight (with Pradeep as a driver) to Mount Abu in the south, spend the day there, travel overnight to Jaisalmer, spend some time there, and then head back to Jaipur after, possibly stopping at Jodhpur on the way. <span style=""> </span>After packing up all our things, we left for our journey at about midnight.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Although car seats aren’t necessarily as comfortable as the beds on a train, a car would afford more flexibility of where and when to go, additionally it turned out to be a big asset at Mount Abu where we would have probably had to hire a driver anyway to get around.<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Abu</st1:placename></st1:place> is the highest peak in Rajasthan, and it took quite some time to drive up through windy roads that climbed upward practically forever.<span style=""> </span>We finally got to the peak sometime early in the afternoon.<span style=""> </span>There is a famous temple there that we visited, as well as the look-out over the mountaintops.<span style=""> </span>There was a faint haze that prevented a clear view to the mountain range base, but the sight was still nice.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We headed back to the town of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mount</st1:place></st1:city> Abu where we got to see more views at lookouts and also Ankit, Ashu, and I (while Pradeep slept in the car) went to “sunset rock” which offered a great view of the sunset.<span style=""> </span>So many people were there, evidently it was the place to be.<span style=""> </span>We walked back through the town, looked at all the shops, bought some snacks, and started to walk around the lake back to meet Pradeep.<span style=""> </span>On our way we met a tour guide who talked with us a while and also warned us of bears that lived in the area; treading carefully down the dark road heading toward the first lookout we visited, a car suddenly came speeding around the bend.<span style=""> </span>Ankit and Ashu recognized it as Pradeep; as he pulled up beside us, some conversation went on in Hindi and Ankit/Ashu urged me to hop in quickly.<span style=""> </span>After more rapid Hindi conversation in the car, and a very anxious Pradeep, Ashu filled me in that evidently Pradeep was awoken from his slumber by the pounding of a bear on the car door.<span style=""> </span>The bear’s face was right there on the window next to him; he quickly started the car and drove away but the bear was in pursuit and was still following him when he met us.<span style=""> </span>He was pretty shaken up about it and was ready to leave.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We decided to stop and get food outside <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Abu</st1:placename></st1:place> because it would be less expensive.<span style=""> </span>I was feeling sort of ill and tired at that time, so I wasn’t as excited to eat as I usually was. <span style=""> </span>It was fun though to see the cook making the food right in front of us, and we ate on weaved cots that are common in Rajasthan.<span style=""> </span>Indian food really is in so many ways a conglomeration; the cook had an assortment of spices and vegetables in front of him and after firing up the gas heater, would throw into the pan some oil, garlic, spices (a little of this, a pinch of that), water, and vegetables and bam--you’d have a veg curry gravy ready to eat with roti.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We had to also stop and get our spare tire fixed because we had a puncture on our way up <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Mount</st1:placetype> <st1:placename st="on">Abu</st1:placename></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>This had also happened with Ashu’s motorcycle in Jaipur the day before (caused by a pin needle); basically you have to take the circular rubber tube (that holds the air) out of the tire, find the puncture, and glue on a sticky patch before putting it back in the tire and reinflating it.<span style=""> </span>The car tire involved more time with an electrical heater and a press, and we were on our way to Jaisalmer at about 11 pm.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was out like a light under my bed sheet and with my inflatable pillow and slept until we stopped to see the clear sunrise over the desert.<span style=""> </span>To readjust I sat on the floor and stretched my legs out, leaning my upper body sideways over the seat.<span style=""> </span>We had finally made it to Rajasthan’s famous desert, the Thar Desert, which <st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region> shares with <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>We actually also saw an military outpost with artillery stationed, not poised and ready for action but just being stored in case they were needed later on.<span style=""> </span>We also passed by the first place where India had tested an atomic bomb, a suitable location due to the open space and low nearby population.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So we made it to Jaisalmer (west end of Rajasthan) that morning and first decided on finding out what options we had to go on a camel safari.<span style=""> </span>I had read about them in the Lonely Planet and thought it’d be the coolest thing.<span style=""> </span>That’s a popular thing to do in Jaisalmer and there are many people to go through. <span style=""> </span>Options included a late afternoon safari and dinner followed by a music and dance performance to a half month trek to the other side of the state.<span style=""> </span>We thought our best option was an operator that would take us to a less-touristy part of the desert that late afternoon, offer dinner and beds on the dunes that evening, and breakfast and lunch the next day along with more safari over the dunes.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The operator was really up-front with us; he told us exactly what we were getting and promised to deliver it, but nothing more.<span style=""> </span>He was really practical about the whole situation and didn’t try to enamor us with bonuses and talk about how good of a deal it was.<span style=""> </span>That to me was more trustworthy than some of the other operators who would go on with promises that although can be enticing, are more likely to be lies.<span style=""> </span>I could tell he was pretty seasoned too; he had dealt with many customers, and he upfront told us that he didn’t like that there were Indians in my group.<span style=""> </span>I’ve had this happen before, encounter an Indian who only prefers to deal with foreigners I mean.<span style=""> </span>I guess he was fed up with how Indians tend to demand so much or always seem to be dissatisfied with the service.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s that a foreigner is going to be ‘wowed’ more easily whereas a native Indian knows more what to expect.<span style=""> </span>Whatever the reason, he was only offering us his program because I was a foreigner; if I were an Indian, he wouldn’t have even considered us.<span style=""> </span>Ankit was disappointed that I wasn’t going to see a ‘traditional’ Rajasthani dance or music, but I tried to explain to him that I didn’t need to.<span style=""> </span>It seemed too touristy and additionally such things would be being performed outside of their original element.<span style=""> </span>Such music and dance wasn’t meant to be performed in that way and in such a sense isn’t an authentic interpretation.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ankit was one of those Indians who was so intent on me having the best time and enjoying everything to the fullest.<span style=""> </span>It’s a nice idea but was really wearing on me after a while.<span style=""> </span>Try to imagine constantly being asked if you’re having a good time or not, being asked whether it was the right decision to do what we were doing, or watching helplessly as he would complain in Hindi to someone that the food or service wasn’t good enough (because he was trying to give me the best experience).<span style=""> </span>Yeah.<span style=""> </span>Really annoying.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t speak much English either, and so it was difficult for me to explain to him that I liked to take everything for what it was and not try to judge it.<span style=""> </span>Anything, good or bad, can be enjoyed and at the least forms part of a unique experience that in itself is very valuable.<span style=""> </span>All this also means that I’m constantly watching how I’m behaving.<span style=""> </span>If Ankit’s happiness is based on whether or not I’m “enjoying” myself, then I feel the need to at the least put on a happy face.<span style=""> </span>You can’t experience something fully if you’re concerned about that.<span style=""> </span>Because I’m already sensitive to the way people perceive me, it was a problem, but I tried my best to focus on what we were visiting and not whether or not I was looking excited the whole time.<span style=""> </span>It was also tiring having to repeat myself so many times.<span style=""> </span>It’s not his fault that he can’t understand me well, but even still there’s nothing more frustrating than when you have to repeat yourself over and over, already tired and with patience that has worn thin.<span style=""> </span>I also couldn’t understand him very well at all, and because Pradeep only spoke Hindi, most of the conversation that went down was in Hindi.<span style=""> </span>With me idle on the side.<span style=""> </span>That’s fine, I mean when that’s your medium, things are communicated the best and most efficiently that way, but it also meant that I spent a lot of time not knowing what was going on.<span style=""> </span>It was then up to Ashu to translate.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ashu was a trooper the whole time, I could imagine how much mental pressure that would put on him, constantly juggling so many things at once, but he remained level-headed and positive all the while; he fortunately was a really good communicator in each language.<span style=""> </span>He was also suffering a great deal with a problem that he’s been facing.<span style=""> </span>He had lent one of his friends (Virad, living in <st1:city st="on">Delhi</st1:city>, who I also met in <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>) rs.10,000 a while ago to help him pay for his friend’s mom’s medical condition or something.<span style=""> </span>Ashu was positive that Virad would repay him within a month, but that was two and a half months ago and, as you guessed, Virad didn’t hold up his end.<span style=""> </span>The problem is that Ashu initially asked his other friend in Jaipur for the money to give to Virad in the first place.<span style=""> </span>His other friend was getting angrier and angrier that Ashu wasn’t paying him back, but he had no means to.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t want to go to his family to get it because he was afraid they would get really upset, but his other friend was threatening to tell his parents anyway.<span style=""> </span>Ashu was on the phone a great deal during our trip trying to pacify things, check his bank account to see if Virad had deposited the money, and trying to call Virad to urge him to pay up, although Virad less-than-frequently answered.<span style=""> </span>Virad is also going through a death in the family and other issues…that’s actually the reason why he additionally didn’t come with us on this trip.<span style=""> </span>I could tell it was really taxing on him trying to juggle all these things (we all hadn’t been sleeping enough either) as well as enjoy his vacation and limited time with the exciting friend who had flown all the way from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city> to visit.<span style=""> </span>It certainly took a great deal of endurance on his part, and I saluted his levelheadedness throughout the whole thing.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After booking the safari (rs.700 each, something like $15) we spent the afternoon visiting the famous Jaisalmer fort.<span style=""> </span>Let me take a second to tell you how Jaisalmer is my favorite city I’ve ever seen.<span style=""> </span>First of all, it’s entirely made of sandstone, all the buildings, homes, even the streets: they’re not paved but made of sandstone brick.<span style=""> </span>All of it blends in with the surrounding desert; it really is like a sandcastle town.<span style=""> </span>If Jaipur is the “pink city,” this was certainly the “golden city.”<span style=""> </span>Additionally there were vibrant colors everywhere; there were SO many colorful things on display, including scarves, saris, blankets, and wall hangings.<span style=""> </span>I’ve seen a lot of color, and this takes the cake.<span style=""> </span>The fort rises up in the center of the city; from anywhere you can usually get a glimpse of at least one of its hundred bastions.<span style=""> </span>Four thousand people actually live inside the fort; it’s been entirely converted into a residential area, and people actually live in the towers (now homes) that used to defend the fort.<span style=""> </span>It unfortunately wasn’t made for the sewage systems (running in gutters on street-sides) that had to be installed, and as a result is slowly falling apart.<span style=""> </span>Some of the bastions have collapsed and the fort’s on an “endangered monument” list.<span style=""> </span>The damage gave it an even more weathered look, as if it were one of my actual sandcastles at the beach that is slowly being damaged by winds as it continues to bake and dry in the harsh sun.<span style=""> </span>So awesome.<span style=""> </span>The streets were narrow and winded around every which way; there was no room for large trucks and buses and additional development.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Inside the fort we hired a guide who showed us around the Jain temple inside (entirely sandstone with ridiculously intricate carvings, sandstone is soft enough for such detail) as well as a haveli.<span style=""> </span>There are several famous havelis in Jaisalmer; they were merchants’ homes during the time of the silk trade prosperity.<span style=""> </span>These merchants would accumulate enormous wealth in their trades and could build enormous, intricately-carved homes with lavish artwork etc. inside as a result.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For lunch we ate at a restaurant famous for its thalis, or all-you-can eat platters of various food assortments, usually including dal, rice or roti, curd, pickle, and different curries.<span style=""> </span>I had a Rajasthani-themed thali; it additionally consisted of a shredded flavorful vegetable dish and also this gravy with buttery balls of a kind of wheat or cornmeal.<span style=""> </span>Whatever it was, it was delicious, and I had no problem taking full advantage of the ‘all-you-can-eat’ advantage to the thali.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At 2:30 we met up with our camel safari operator who we followed in his jeep (carrying other foreigners) to a site with ancient sandstone graves and temples outside the city.<span style=""> </span>We then continued for about 40 km into the desert, and after arriving at the destination, meeting our guide, and waiting for our camels, we were off past a small village and into the desert.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Camels are funny animals.<span style=""> </span>First of all, they’re actually really large; I guess I never really quite knew until I had the chance to stand next to one of the beasts.<span style=""> </span>They can smell pretty bad sometimes, and they make this grunt that’s identical to how you would imagine a dinosaur to sound.<span style=""> </span>I’ll imitate it for you later.<span style=""> </span>They have this smug look on their face; their mouths constantly have this pursed smile, and with their eyes half-mast, it looks like they’re wearing this pompous “I’m better than you” look.<span style=""> </span>They’re pretty inert, it takes some shouting and tugging to get them to stand up or sit down.<span style=""> </span>It looks like either standing or sitting though takes a substantial amount of work; they have a lot of weight to hall!<span style=""> </span>Getting on the back isn’t hard (they had a cushioned saddle on each one), but as it would stand, I learned to brace myself.<span style=""> </span>First it straightens up its back legs and unless you lean completely back, you’ll be kicked foreword and off the camel’s back.<span style=""> </span>Same thing when he sits down.<span style=""> </span>They move pretty slowly, and I imagine it would take ages to travel all the way to <st1:country-region st="on">China</st1:country-region> or elsewhere on them like in the <st1:place st="on">Silk Road</st1:place> days.<span style=""> </span>A rope is tied to iron nostril piercings they have up their noses for steering or coercion to move.<span style=""> </span>Mine didn’t like to be pet, he’d give me a nasty look and turn his head when I reached toward him.<span style=""> </span>I guess I wouldn’t necessarily like to own one, but it was sure a blast to ride one for a few days.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As we were venturing through the dunes on our safaris, with the sun beating down, the faint jingle of the bells around the camels’ necks, and dry waving dunes far into the distance, I also was listening to music on my ipod that actually specifically reminds me of the desert, including the soundtracks from “The Mummy” and “The Mummy Returns.”<span style=""> </span>We made a stop to run around on the dunes and watch the sunset.<span style=""> </span>The sand of the dunes is so fine that it’s like dust, and when you run over them your feet sink into them up to above your ankles; it practically flows like water.<span style=""> </span>There were also these big black beetles crawling around that reminded me of scarabs.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After seeing the sunset, we went to the site where we were to sleep for the night.<span style=""> </span>In a valley of the dunes, there was a spot of four cots set up for us; we could see only a few other sites where others were staying and in the distance a small village of a few huts where our guide lived.<span style=""> </span>The food our guide made us was tasty and just what the operator promised (in addition to bottled water).<span style=""> </span>The cots were extremely comfortable; thick blankets and pillows were also provided (a good thing too because it gets crisp in the night).<span style=""> </span>As we sunk into our beds, a full view of the black sky lit with stars was on display above; such an awesome sight to fall asleep to.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I awoke the next morning to the tinkle of camel bells, and by the time I arose our guide had prepared chai, toast, hard-boiled eggs, and bananas for us.<span style=""> </span>I went to go meet our guide’s family at the nearby village.<span style=""> </span>Their huts are made of mixtures of dried camel dung and sand with a roof weaved of long leaves.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That day we set out again for more dunes, stopping at the best places along the way to enjoy them.<span style=""> </span>By around noon, we stopped one last time to prepare lunch.<span style=""> </span>I helped gather firewood and Ankit helped cook; there were plenty of tumbleweeds around which ignited really easily to start our fire.<span style=""> </span>Our dish was prepared by mixing various spices in a bath of water and oil and stirring in chopped potato and cauliflower.<span style=""> </span>Also our dishes were cleaned using sand.<span style=""> </span>We also ‘washed’ our hands with sand; it’s funny how the prevalence of sand and the scarcity of water prompted sand to become a new medium for all kinds of things.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back in Jaisalmer we spent the afternoon roaming around the city some more, and I stopped into a few shops to buy some things.<span style=""> </span>The venders I met were hard bargainers and would shoo you out if you were asking for prices that were too low.<span style=""> </span>We checked to see that evening if my favorite thali place was open, but they weren’t serving dinner until 7, so we decided to head back to Jaipur and eat in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Jodhpur</st1:city></st1:place> along the way.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jodhpur</st1:place></st1:city> has some famous sites to see as well, but unfortunately we had no time to stay and only got to see its large fort from a distance in the night.<span style=""> </span>We stopped at a roadside restaurant again, this one was even less accustomed to foreigners and the few Indians that were there spent their time staring at me blankly.<span style=""> </span>An SIP student in <st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:city> has a friend who is volunteering near <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Jodhpur</st1:place></st1:city>; she’s the only foreigner in her group and has been really uncomfortable in public.<span style=""> </span>People will congregate around her to stare, and she literally has to push her way past them to get anywhere.<span style=""> </span>Once she went to a musical performance and the whole show stopped because she entered and everyone was distracted.<span style=""> </span>At first being stared at is funny, but at that level it’s extremely rude; the people who stare mustn’t be able to understand how inconsiderate it is, and I can easily imagine her intense discomfort.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After dinner, we all piled into the car and continued to head home, hoping to reach Jaipur in the morning.<span style=""> </span>I was awoken from my sleep by distant agitated discussion.<span style=""> </span>The car was also stopped; although we stopped sometimes to go to the bathroom or for my friends to smoke, there was never commotion to go along with it.<span style=""> </span>Through my half-opened eyes I saw Ankit and Pradeep outside by the driver side door talking with a policeman.<span style=""> </span>The tense discussion lasted a few more seconds and then was temporarily halted as the policeman slapped Pradeep across the face.<span style=""> </span>Hard.<span style=""> </span>I nudged Ashu awake to try to figure out what was going on.<span style=""> </span>He slapped Pradeep again after the argument picked back up.<span style=""> </span>As I grew more and more worried and confused, the officer took both Ankit and Pradeep by the arm and marched away into the blackness ahead.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ashu overheard that evidently they had attempted to pick up some fruit that had fallen off of a truck and that’s why they were being apprehended.<span style=""> </span>My jaw continued to remain dropped as the time passed, and I wondered if it was legitimate to ask myself in the back of my head if I’d ever see my friends again.<span style=""> </span>Who knows, I mean I’ve never been in a situation like that and it just felt like I was in some terrifying movie or something.<span style=""> </span>I’m glad Ashu was there, because he didn’t seem to get too worked up about it and assured me they’d be back soon; I remained calm.<span style=""> </span>The three of them came back about 15 minutes later, seemingly fine.<span style=""> </span>The officer wanted to know who Ashu and I were; as I stepped out of the car I could see the fruit truck behind us, some of its cargo scattered about the road.<span style=""> </span>I showed him my university student ID card and gave him a strong stink eye.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t scare me and I was beyond pissed that he was treating us this way.<span style=""> </span>After he verified our identities we climbed back in the car and after they talked in Hindi, I asked to know what actually happened.<span style=""> </span>Pradeep and Ankit had indeed stopped to take some fruit that had fallen from the truck, it was dirty anyway and unlikely to be salvaged from the driver.<span style=""> </span>The officer had been so angry because he suspected us of attempting to rob the truck and take crates of its cargo.<span style=""> </span>Only after he had assuredly identified us as students did he believe our claims of defense and let us go, surprisingly even without a bribe.<span style=""> </span>Pradeep and Ankit seemed unaffected by it; I sat in the back angry at the blatant injustice that the officer had exercised, every time I cross paths with the police (in <st1:place st="on">Goa</st1:place>, at the airport, etc.) I get more and more frustrated with them.<span style=""> </span>The way this situation played out certainly was a testament to a ‘guilty until proven innocent’ mentality.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was nice to be back in Jaipur; pulling up to Ashu’s house the next morning felt in a way like I was returning home.<span style=""> </span>I was excited to get out of the car and have a place to stretch out and relax.<span style=""> </span>Ashu’s mom was equally as excited to greet us and whipped up some more aloo paratha and curd.<span style=""> </span>As I bathed and changed clothes, the family caught each other up on their travels in Hindi, and as I returned back to the living room, Ashu’s mom asked me what time it was in Hindi.<span style=""> </span>She loved asking me what time it was and hearing me respond in Hindi; she must have done that dozens of times during my stay there.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">There were more places in Jaipur to see, including an old observatory and the city palace.<span style=""> </span>Ankit, Ashu and I headed back into the city and after parking and enjoying some popularly vended drinks made of lime, ice, salt, and lemon soda (a fascinating cross between sweet, salty, and tart tastes) we started to head toward the observatory, Jantar Mantar.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Jantar Mantar houses many old devices that used to be utilized to tell time and measure the position of various heavenly bodies. <span style=""> </span>Ashu and I were having a discussion side by side as we were nearing the gate when he was suddenly interrupted and yanked backward.<span style=""> </span>Startled, I turned to see what had happened, and you could have guessed that there was a scowling police officer facing us.<span style=""> </span>He suspected my friends to be illegal guides; usually social groups consist of either Indians or foreigners, and a mix means that the foreigner could be getting a ‘tour’ without paying government regulated tour guide fees.<span style=""> </span>This has happened before (Ankit and Ashu have been questioned whether or not they were licensed guides when seen with me), but usually it’s not very involved; this officer unfortunately wasn’t budging even after we showed him our student identity cards and I solidly claimed that were all just friends.<span style=""> </span>At first he was going to let us go in, but under the condition that we wouldn’t talk to each other inside.<span style=""> </span>Realizing that he had no way of knowing that would be upheld, he denied either me or both Ankit and Ashu entrance.<span style=""> </span>They insisted that I go see the observatory, and they were going to wait for me outside.<span style=""> </span>There was nothing left to do but shoot the officer another one of my pissed looks of frustration and leave the situation behind as it was.<span style=""> </span>Whatever, I guess he’s just doing his job.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The observatory had many sun dials in it as well as other curious structures.<span style=""> </span>The largest dial was stories high; a dial is basically a large triangle with its hypotenuse lined up with the planet’s axis and a surrounding half circle that’s parallel to the equator.<span style=""> </span>The sun casts a shadow over the hypotenuse onto the circle which tells the time; the largest one was so accurate and sensitive that it could tell the time down to the half second.<span style=""> </span>I was going to hire a guide through Jantar Mantar, but it probably would have taken too long and I didn’t want to keep Ankit and Ashu waiting.<span style=""> </span>I also stopped by the city palace on the way back; the foreigner fee was rs.300 and I wasn’t excited about that.<span style=""> </span>I had seen enough palaces anyway, so I continued on to meet up with them and figure out where we were eating lunch.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We decided to head back to Ashu’s home, it was their neighbor’s son’s birthday and they wanted to have me as a guest.<span style=""> </span>It was a lot of fun; lots of laughing and really good food, including a delicious peanut chutney.<span style=""> </span>After, we needed to decide what was going to happen that evening.<span style=""> </span>It was the first day of the Diwali festival, and initially we had planned on me heading to Ankit’s house about 60 km away, but we didn’t know if it’d be easy to transport me back and forth in time for my flight that was leaving the next morning at 6.<span style=""> </span>Also Ashu’s dad claimed traveling like that on Diwali unsafe, evidently sometimes crackers can be jokingly but dangerously thrown motorcycles driving by.<span style=""> </span>Although I would have like to meet Ankit’s family/friends and see his home, I really liked Ashu’s family who wanted me to stay and celebrate as well.<span style=""> </span>Honestly also Ankit was grinding my gears with regard to what I mentioned earlier.<span style=""> </span>Plus Jaipur city was supposed to be really beautiful that night, completely decorated with all the lights.<span style=""> </span>Ankit decided that it’d be best if we all stayed there; he also opted to remain with us and travel home for the holiday the day after. <span style=""> </span>A perfect compromise.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As soon as we were decided, Ashu’s Dad rushed me in the car and we went into town to buy sweets, vegetables for dinner, and more sweets.<span style=""> </span>Diwali sure is a festival of sweets; we got boxes and boxes of gulab jamun, all kinds of barfis, chum chum, and various other colorful sugary edibles that we either would give away to friends or store at home for personal consumption.<span style=""> </span>Ankit also went to purchase some fireworks as I helped Ashu’s mom decorate the house.<span style=""> </span>Pradeep had already put up strings of colorful lights all around, and my job was to place the lamps in intervals on all the walls, steps, and ledges of the house.<span style=""> </span>Diwali lamps are small terra cotta clay cups that are filled with oil and have a string wick that burns like a candle.<span style=""> </span>Dozens and dozens were prepared, and you practically didn’t need electric lights to see around the house with them all lit.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, Ashu wanted to go to the nearby barber to get shaved before the festivities began.<span style=""> </span>I really needed to be shaved as well, and after seeing myself in the barber’s mirror I realized that my wild hair was way too out of control.<span style=""> </span>The last time I cut it was before coming to India, so I guess it was high time for another one, and what better time than now?<span style=""> </span>The barber was pretty excited about my hair and said he was giving me his specialty cut; it didn’t turn out half bad.<span style=""> </span>Also the shaving was fun; I’ve never been shaved with a single knife-like blade before.<span style=""> </span>He also unexpectedly sprayed my face with water and slapped on some aftershave.<span style=""> </span>The whole deal was about $3.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at home, Ankit had returned with crackers, and we all did a puja at the shrine in Ashu’s room (consisting of lots of Rajasthani chanting/singing etc.).<span style=""> </span>After having appetizers of soda, papad (large chips), and sweets, we all headed up to the rooftop to light our fireworks.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">By that time it was dark and the city was in its full-fledged celebration mode.<span style=""> </span>You could see rooftops extending for quite some distance, and in any direction you’d look there would be flashings or sparks or rockets being set off into the air.<span style=""> </span>The city sounded like it was legitimately under attack, the crackers sounded like machine guns and the bombs sounded like…well, bombs exploding.<span style=""> </span>Such commotion lasted well into the night and only dwindled by midnight.<span style=""> </span>We lit many-cone shaped fireworks that would spray showers of sparks into the air and sometimes would explode at the end.<span style=""> </span>We also had bombs specifically meant to explode in a deafening, blinding flash that left your ears ringing.<span style=""> </span>Ankit and Ashu lit them like crazy, I could never quite tell which kind was being lit or where it was located precisely; that made most of the explosions really shocking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ashu’s mom and sister stayed standing on the side.<span style=""> </span>I mostly opted for that too; the area we were lighting those crackers was like a minefield.<span style=""> </span>Plus sometimes you’d light something and even though the sparking wick would burn all the way down, it wouldn’t set off and you were left wondering what to do.<span style=""> </span>I uncomfortably watched as each time that happened Ankit or Ashu would try to relight it.<span style=""> </span>Once a bomb went off while Ashu was leaning down to light it; I started freaking out, but Ashu stood up with a bright smile on his face chuckling and tapping his ears, temporarily deafened by the blast.<span style=""> </span>Whatever floats your boat.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the street below everyone was setting crackers off too; mostly kids were lighting them with their parents either watching from the house or absent altogether.<span style=""> </span>Once, Ankit shot off a rocket that we poised in a plastic bottle.<span style=""> </span>It was supposed to explode in the air, but we watched its flame rise and then fall straight back down, landing smack on our neighbor’s rooftop.<span style=""> </span>Half a second later there was a huge burst of fiery red sparks that erupted in a sphere rising up from the rooftop, all around the nearby wooden furniture and clothes hanging to dry.<span style=""> </span>Our family seemed alarmed for a brief while, but quickly decided it was no big deal, and we continued to set off more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After we had had our fill of setting them off for the time being, Ashu, Ankit, and I walked around the town to various friends’ houses to visit briefly.<span style=""> </span>On the streets there was a smoky haze that hovered from the aftermath of the first few hours of celebration.<span style=""> </span>You’d be walking along and suddenly there’d be a huge blast and flash a few meters away from an unknown cracker that had been lit.<span style=""> </span>Immediately after there’d be a sparking rocket shoot past you horizontally and crash into the side of the house wall at the other end of the street.<span style=""> </span>It was all so exciting and unpredictable, you never quite knew when or from where you’d be stunned with a flash and blast next. Kids were running around screaming and giggling in the streets which were lit like day with the thousands of lamps and colorful lights that decorated the nearby houses.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Back at the house we had dinner and discussions about how cool Diwali was, followed by more talking well into the night until Ashu’s mom and Kushboo were the only ones awake.<span style=""> </span>I slowly faded until it was physically impossible for me continue conversation, and Ashu’s mom insisted that I rest.<span style=""> </span>I slept only an hour or two before I was up to shower and get ready to leave for my flight that left at 6 am.<span style=""> </span>Ashu’s sleepy eyed family awoke themselves to bid me a warm farewell and insisted that I come back to visit again.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way to the airport Ashu mentioned his money issue again.<span style=""> </span>I had already decided that I wouldn’t be lending him his deficit.<span style=""> </span>He had also told me that Virad had borrowed money from him before and not returned it.<span style=""> </span>Ironically Ashu didn’t seem upset at Virad about the whole situation, he was most concerned about getting the money back to his other friend and repaying his debt.<span style=""> </span>I’d trust Ashu, but I didn’t trust Virad’s word and if that’s where Ashu was waiting for repayment, I wasn’t about to become another spoke in the wheel.<span style=""> </span>If I lent Ashu money, he would continue to be the middle man and he’d just be transferring his debt to someone else.<span style=""> </span>Plus, how he would return money to me didn’t feel like an easy process; it was time for Ashu to confront his parents with the issue, despite their impending disappointment, and ask them for help.<span style=""> </span>Indians I’ve noticed are extremely invested in their parent’s best interest; none of my friends at <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city> will ask for money from their parents either, even if they have barely enough to buy food. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Explaining my thoughts to Ashu and wishing him luck, I said my goodbyes to Ankit and Ashu and headed into the airport to board the plane.<span style=""> </span>Security again went through all my stuff.<span style=""> </span>They found a small metal musical instrument I had bought from Jaisalmer and threw it away; I should have realized they wouldn’t allow that, no big deal though.<span style=""> </span>I don’t even remember the flight; I was out like a light until we reached <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:city></st1:place> at about 8 in the morning.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I only had rs.150 left in my wallet and unfortunately the bus ticket back was also exactly rs.150; that would leave no money to take me back to the university by rickshaw.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately I also saw that for rs.120 I could take another bus to Medhiputnam from where (given I could find the bus stop) I could take a city bus back to the university for only rs.6.<span style=""> </span>There’s no way to get to or from the airport for cheaper than that!<span style=""> </span>Fortunately it worked out fine and I was back in my room at the university at 10:30 am, without any rats to greet me either to boot. <span style=""> </span>With no droppings on my bed, it sure was an exciting opportunity to be able to fall right asleep, scenes from last night’s celebration still flashing in my mind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""> </span></p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-86834857211037585312008-11-03T23:44:00.000+05:302008-11-03T23:47:24.022+05:30Mysore<p class="MsoNormal">OK, I have substantial amounts of work to do but this has to be written or I’m going to be forgetting it.<span style=""> </span>Two weekends ago CIEE organized another trip, this time to <st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City> and <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bangalore</st1:City></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Although I waited for the trip with anticipation, many CIEE students didn’t share my excitement; the manner in which we have to travel (in a large group) can really rub the students the wrong way.<span style=""> </span>I mentioned that about our last trip to Chennai.<span style=""> </span>I guess most students in CIEE have traveled much before and have their opinions about how traveling should proceed, and that doesn’t include giant motorcoaches, stops to take pictures for only brief amounts of time, excessive provisions including endless bottled water and non-budget hotel rooms, and lack of choice in travel destinations.<span style=""> </span>I guess basically we don’t like to be tourists.<span style=""> </span>With a group our size of 22 students though, few traveling method options remain.<span style=""> </span>It’s just the way it is.<span style=""> </span>You can’t have a choice if you’re in a huge group like that, otherwise it’d be chaos.<span style=""> </span>You can’t spend lots of time at only one place because we only have a short amount of time, and CIEE isn’t allowed to take students away from their classes during the week, so one weekend is all you have.<span style=""> </span>Budget accommodations and no supplied food or water means that at least someone is going to complain (in a group that size, it’s inevitable).<span style=""> </span>I find that people love to have something to complain about.<span style=""> </span>It gives them something to do, something to share an opinion with others about.<span style=""> </span>And it can be really annoying.<span style=""> </span>In fact, there was one student in our group who specifically complained that we didn’t have a flight to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangalore</st1:place></st1:City> on the justification that if our program director was flying late to meet us, we should be granted the same privilege.<span style=""> </span>Even though we had an A/C train reserved, it wasn’t enough because there was something more that could have been done.<span style=""> </span>In this way, CIEE has the responsibility to make the most people happy as possible, and obviously plenary satisfaction is an impossibility.<span style=""> </span>With all that CIEE does for us, it’s a pity that even still everyone loves to complain.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Arriving in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bangalore</st1:City></st1:place> station on Saturday morning, we all walked to a nearby hotel to freshen up and have breakfast.<span style=""> </span>Our tour guide from Chennai, <st1:place st="on">Annapurna</st1:place>, met us there and I was eager to have more discussions with her.<span style=""> </span>Despite how knowledgeable and fun she is to talk to, most students share a dislike for her, probably because they feel like they’re treated like children when she delivers her tour-guide lectures for which any other tourist would be paying.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We boarded our bus and were on our way to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place>, another city about 4 hours away.<span style=""> </span>CIEE had purchased crates of oranges, apples, and bananas that accompanied us on the bus and throughout the weekend served as tasty treats.<span style=""> </span>The oranges had green rind and were really tart, absolutely delicious.<span style=""> </span>The way to <st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City> was incredibly beautiful; nature everywhere, palm trees, farmlands, small houses…<st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place> is known for that and is home to some of the wealthiest farmers; the land is perfect for farming.<span style=""> </span>We made one stop along the way at a jaggery producer (jaggery is an unrefined sugar that is used a lot in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>).<span style=""> </span>It was made by crushing sugar cane to extract the juice; the juice was boiled (burning the old sugar cane wood for heat) to remove water and allowed to set and solidify.<span style=""> </span>The result is jaggery, better for you than refined white sugar and tastier too.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Also on our way we stopped at a famous temple with some of the most intricate carvings I’ve seen.<span style=""> </span>The architecture was different from most temples in south <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, the main part at its base is shaped like a star instead of a square to provide more sides for carvings.<span style=""> </span>Pillars of the temple also were carved using rope and water which made them look like they had been ground on a spinner, being completely symmetrical and smooth the whole way around.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Arriving in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place>, we stopped at a hotel to eat.<span style=""> </span>Outside was a curious billboard: writing in English had been scratched out and over it Kannada (the local language) was written.<span style=""> </span>Annapurna said that locals feared the change in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place> that was happening as a result of English influence.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t seem as if those in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place> didn’t like foreigners, just that they were fearful of the change that was happening.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">While we were eating, a monsoon started outside.<span style=""> </span><st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:City> had been dry for a while before we left for <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Mysore</st1:place></st1:City> (the monsoon season was over), but in the more southern states, the rainy season continues longer as there’s more bordering ocean in the vicinity to supply the monsoon ingredients.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After, we went to Tina’s house.<span style=""> </span>Tina is a Mysore local who daily supplies outdoor breakfast to those who have come to Mysore to do yoga (Mysore is also known for its yoga practices), at her house we had the opportunity to learn how straw mats were weaved (kindof like how a sari is weaved actually) and make clay pottery or idols while being fed delicious homemade samosas, chai, and gulab jamun.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next, we went to the shopping district of Mysore where for a few hours we walked around to investigate.<span style=""> </span>There were lots of wood carvings on display and also many fruits and dyed powders that lent vibrant colors to the area.<span style=""> </span><st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City></st1:place> is also known for its sandalwood, and I picked up some sandalwood lip balm and sandalwood extract oil.<span style=""> </span>One kid who was eager to meet me also showed me how he rolled incense at his shop and gave me an sandalwood-scented one as a gift.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That evening we stayed in comfortable accommodations that reminded me of a ski lodge.<span style=""> </span>It was also Thy’s birthday and many of us got together at midnight to celebrate with cake and dancing.<span style=""> </span>Most of us were entirely exhausted though and turned in soon after.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next morning we went back to Tina’s house for breakfast consisting of teas, chai, coffee, omelets, potato, papad, curd, leavened whole grain bread and homemade peanut butter.<span style=""> </span>The bread and peanut butter was my favorite part; you can’t find many whole grain products here, most rice and bread is refined and bleached.<span style=""> </span>And I could have just eaten spoonfuls of that peanut butter all day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Next we stopped at the palace at <st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City>; <st1:city st="on">Mysore</st1:City> had been the administrative center of Karnataka before the British moved it to <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bangalore</st1:City></st1:place>, and the palace (although having burned down and been rebuilt) was quite a sight.<span style=""> </span>My favorite rooms at the palace were the wedding room and this one room that the raja (king) I think used for social gatherings.<span style=""> </span>The octagonal wedding room, although only used for weddings, was as high as a cathedral and had a stained-glass ceiling supported by many pillars.<span style=""> </span>The gathering room was plated in gold and had silver doors and many paintings.<span style=""> </span>A throne sat at the back where the raja would sit.<span style=""> </span>It was funny to see a curtain spanning the room at the back that would conceal the raja before and after the gathering; his presence in a way was like a performance.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That afternoon we headed back to <st1:city st="on">Bangalore</st1:City> on our bus; most everyone slept, but I remained awake to talk with <st1:place st="on">Annapurna</st1:place> and Caitlin and also eat tons of fruit.<span style=""> </span>In <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bangalore</st1:City></st1:place> we had packed lunches and listened to a professional story teller.<span style=""> </span>By that time we were already due to be back to the train station soon.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Most of us gave away the dinners we were provided on the train to anyone who would take them, including beggars, since we had just eaten.<span style=""> </span>We also had lots of fruit left over, and I made sure to give that away too.<span style=""> </span>On the train many of us talked for some time before going to bed; I remember one conversation I had with Rachel about how difficult it was going to be to go home.<span style=""> </span>Not in the sense you’re probably thinking of.<span style=""> </span>When December rolls around, we’ll be ready to leave <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>The hard part is going to be readjusting to the States.<span style=""> </span>Not only are there blatant cultural differences that we’ll have to get reacquainted to in the States or longingly miss in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, but the whole social context as well will be completely incongruent.<span style=""> </span>I’ve loved living with other exchange students, developing our friendships, and sharing our stories about <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Here everyone has some kind of common ground on which to stand when we’re sharing experiences, telling jokes, complaining, admiring, etc. in the sense that we’ve all been through many of the same things here and know what each other is talking about when we say something in the context of India.<span style=""> </span>At home, no one will have that common knowledge/understanding and it will be much more difficult to communicate.<span style=""> </span>Additionally I’m fearful to have to simplify my experience to tell and retell it back home or at college.<span style=""> </span>After making an experience a narrative, you learn what to include and what not to include based on time constraints and in what a listener is going to be interested.<span style=""> </span>After a while, your experience in a sense becomes that narrative and loses its initial quality of uniqueness and novelty.<span style=""> </span>Although curiosity in what <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s like or what my experience was is a fine and well-founded notion, actually communicating it will always fall short of what it I would like to convey.<span style=""> </span>That will not only be tiring but disappointing.<span style=""> </span>One way I’m trying to alleviate that is by keeping this blog to have some sort of record for myself and for others.<span style=""> </span>“What was <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> like?” is too substantial a question to answer unless there’s some sort of common ground that can be used for communication.<span style=""> </span>I guess the best way to answer a question like that is to explain every event I encountered, only then can an idea of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> follow.<span style=""> </span>Such ideas can’t just be told, they can really only be understood by working from the ground up as a sum of every rickshaw ride taken, every dish eaten, every gift haggled for, every conversation had, every sight seen, every monsoon and power outage lived through (the power actually went out exactly as I was typing that), every stare received, every smell cringed at, every digestive problem had, and every bit of exciting unexpectedness lived.<span style=""> </span>Really only after that does someone know in general what <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> was like.<span style=""> </span>But who has time for that?<span style=""> </span>And there’s part of the problem.<span style=""> </span>I know Tori anticipates such issues as well; she’s told me many times that a few days after she gets home and can rest, she’s having her entire family, all of her friends, and anyone who would ever want to know about India over to her house for a powerpoint presentation and an in-depth account of her experience.<span style=""> </span>After that, she wants to talk about <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> no more.<span style=""> </span>I know where she’s coming from.</p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15151438730538732833noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443277931011789223.post-72138030049426564272008-10-20T20:13:00.002+05:302008-10-20T20:21:46.176+05:30<p class="MsoNormal">Last weekend over the long holiday (we had Thursday off) I ventured to Kerala, a southern coastal state famous for its relaxing vacation spots, tasty food, warm whether, and palm trees.<span style=""> </span>The train left from <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city> station at noon, so I took an early local train out to the city to walk around and see if my favorite restaurant was open.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t, but it was still fun visiting shops and also locating my favorite chaat food, kachori, at a roadside sweet shop.<span style=""> </span>The train was very crowded, and I was glad to have a reserved seat; I was on the waiting list for the return train back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>, you’ll see how that turns out later.<span style=""> </span>Also sitting in the compartment were two older couples and one younger woman from Manipuri, <st1:place st="on">Northeast India</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One couple was Jahovah’s Witnesses and had lots to say about their faith.<span style=""> </span>Although they consider the bible to be historical fact, they also followed interpretations like “day” meaning ‘period of time’ as opposed to ‘24 hours’ in the creation story.<span style=""> </span>They claim that the world was coming to a close soon, as disasters like corruption, homosexuality, and drugs are plaguing society, but they find refuge in their faith that guides so many aspects of their lives.<span style=""> </span>I was leafing through a magazine that they had; it appeared just like a regular magazine but with a Jahovah’s Witnesses flavor to it.<span style=""> </span>One story talked about how although a cow has four stomachs useful for plant digestion, a baby calf has to bypass them when nursing or the ingested milk will ferment dangerously.<span style=""> </span>The story concluded with a statement about how gloriously appropriate it was for the bypass to naturally occur at a young age and used it as obvious proof that there had been some divine creator/designer at work and therefore couldn’t be the result of random chance (evolution).<span style=""> </span>Although I didn’t see eye-to-eye with most of what the couple/magazine had to say, it was interesting to observe the beliefs of an example non-Hindu/Muslim practices in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The two couples fed me more than I could eat.<span style=""> </span>They had packaged lemon rice, tomato rice, beef, roti, curd rice etc. and were more than willing to offer me as much as I wanted.<span style=""> </span>I also enjoyed the company, the train ride was 24 hours and it’s nice to have conversation to pass the time.<span style=""> </span>I also spent hours gazing out of the doors and windows onto the countryside.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day at noon the train arrived promptly in Thrissur, Kerala.<span style=""> </span>I was meeting my friend who lives there, Manydas, who I had gotten to know earlier that semester at the University in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Hyderabad</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>He was there at the station waiting for me and was eager to take me to meet his family.<span style=""> </span>He lives in a residential part of Thrissur with narrow winding streets bordered by low property walls and palm trees to fill every extra inch of ground space.<span style=""> </span>He also lives adjacent to train tracks, and every once in a while you’d clearly hear the rumble of a train go by, what Many euphemistically referred to as a “song” the train would sing. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sidewalk was mossy and the air was humid, and along with the palm trees everywhere you could sure tell that the environment was certainly different that of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>’s.<span style=""> </span>Many’s house consisted of a front living room with a television and small couch as well as shelves with pictures and various stuffs for religious puja.<span style=""> </span>I spent most of my time in that room because as a guest I was to remain in the best-looking, most clean area of the house.<span style=""> </span>After that room was a short hallway with two small bedrooms and a kitchen in the back.<span style=""> </span>The floor was a shiny clean black tile and the walls were pink-painted concrete.<span style=""> </span>Also their bathroom was an outhouse a few meters away in the back behind the kitchen. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Upon entering, Many’s family offered copious amounts of coconut water and coconut meat.<span style=""> </span>Coconut by the way is like a way of Keralan life, the oil is used in practically all cooked dishes, the water is drunk, flesh eaten, and shell used for burning. <span style=""> </span>I’m used to tough thick flesh that’s difficult to eat off of the hard brown shell, but the coconuts they served were younger and fresher, the meat was thin and squishy and peeled right off, very easy to eat and very tasty.<span style=""> </span>Many’s family didn’t speak much English, so there wasn’t a whole lot to talk about, but they spent much of their time smiling at me; it was obvious that they were elated to have me as a guest.<span style=""> </span>Many has three older sisters, and the one who lives there also has two young children, Pranao and Dia who speak the best English in the family because they attend an English-medium school.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Many’s family laid down mats and huge banana tree leaves on the floor.<span style=""> </span>Usually such preparations occur only on holidays, but I suppose having a guest was occasion enough for a huge feast.<span style=""> </span>And a feast it was.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t have held all the rice they started me off with in two hands if I tried.<span style=""> </span>The rice there is plumper and shorter than the thin, long rice I’m used to in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>They also poured on loads of samwar (a dal-like curry) and added heaping portions of cabbage, chicken curry, and banana tree spine curry (maybe made from the interior of a banana tree?).<span style=""> </span>They also loaded me up with papad (thin chip) and a liquidy sweet.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Filled to the brim, Many and I headed to Guruvayur, a temple-town about half an hour away.<span style=""> </span>The temple there was a location of pilgrimage for many Hindus, although I wasn’t permitted to enter.<span style=""> </span>We saw lots of temples that whole weekend, but it would have been inappropriate for me to enter being a non-Hindu.<span style=""> </span>The temple we saw had its own elephant sanctuary (which I was allowed to see).<span style=""> </span>People will donate elephants to the temple for religious reasons, and so many have been donated (64 I think) that a whole sanctuary is needed to house them all.<span style=""> </span>It was fun seeing elephants up close, but I had mixed feelings about the sanctuary itself.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Each elephant had two of its legs tied in chains to concrete posts, and they had very limited range of motion.<span style=""> </span>Also I observed commotion happening near one elephant; apparently it was “misbehaving” and, looking closer, I saw many keepers hitting it hard with bamboo poles.<span style=""> </span>I couldn’t quite tell exactly what the elephant was doing wrong, it appeared just to be standing there, but the keepers continued to smack at its sides.<span style=""> </span>Nearby elephants picked up huge palm branches with their trunks and hurled them dozens of feet into the air at the keepers to try to get them to back off.<span style=""> </span>The people touring the sanctuary chuckled at the attempt to save the misbehaving elephant.<span style=""> </span>The keepers took hunks of wood and hurled them right back at the other elephants.<span style=""> </span>I kept trying to find out exactly what the elephant was doing wrong, but I couldn’t get a straight answer.<span style=""> </span>I guess I spent a lot of that weekend being confused; that’s not hard when limited English is spoken around you.<span style=""> </span>I tried to take a photo of the event but, pulling out my camera, a keeper ran over to me waving his hands ordering me to put it back.<span style=""> </span>He didn’t want their jobs to be lost or the sanctuary’s integrity to be damaged if I went to an animal rights organization.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">After, Many and I met up with his brother in law; he is married to Kavitha, Many’s sister who lives at home, but lives half an hour away because of work.<span style=""> </span>They both need separate jobs to bring in enough money for the family and as a result live separately, only meeting maybe once in a week or few weeks.<span style=""> </span>One of the reasons that they need to be employed is because Many’s parents are partially handicapped.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Let me preface by talking about the public buses in Kerala: first of all they have no windows, it sure is more comfortable with the heavy humidity; they are also more shiny and flashy than the buses in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city>.<span style=""> </span>Evidently the buses in Kerala are privately owned so the drivers get in the habit of sprucing up their vehicle with garlands, flashing colorful lights, and the token shrine to a god at the front.<span style=""> </span>Anyway, Many’s parents were riding the bus about 15 years ago; his mother’s elbow was resting on the windowless edge, and his father had his arm around her.<span style=""> </span>The bus was in a massive wreck, smashing the front of the bus in so far that Many’s mother’s right arm was completely severed and his fathers hand crushed.<span style=""> </span>After years of therapy, they can take care of themselves, but finding employment is best left for the kids. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Another problem that the family is having is that a husband can’t be found for the two older daughters, mostly because a large dowry cannot be offered.<span style=""> </span>Because there is a lack of money to offer to a husband, the daughters are remaining unmarried, which means a perpetuation of low revenue for the family. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So we met up with his brother in law and walked around the town some which included short conversations with eager youngsters and teenagers, excited to see a foreigner and practice their English.<span style=""> </span>They were also ‘wowed’ when I used a few Malayalam phrases. Malayalam, the language of Kerala is a most wacky sounding one. <span style=""> </span>You can imitate it by making gibberish noises while rapidly moving your tongue back and forth.<span style=""> </span>Also, Malayalam incorporates letters like ‘zha.’<span style=""> </span>It’s pronounced like a cross between a ‘la’ and a ‘ra’.<span style=""> </span>Try it, it’s fun.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That evening we stopped at a small bar in the residential area of the town.<span style=""> </span>Along with the spicy beef fry (Keralan specialty), we had kulluh (sp?), a beverage made I think by distilling coconut; it was white and opaque and had the smell of freshly broken yeasty bread.<span style=""> </span>It’s also served out of a clay pot which makes it twice as cool.<span style=""> </span>Its initial taste is stingingly sweet, but the aftertaste is the best part and reminded me of the taste you’ll get by eating nachos and drinking beer.<span style=""> </span>Many people there were keen on talking to me too, but Many advised against it because they had been drinking and you never quite knew exactly how they were going to act.<span style=""> </span>Drinking constitutes a large part of many people’s lives in Kerala, and many would claim that the state is known for it.<span style=""> </span>A lot of people drink daily, but not women of course.<span style=""> </span>As you can imagine, drunk driving accidents are an issue.<span style=""> </span>The bars however close by 9:30 or 10 at the latest; things get too rowdy if they’re open past that.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a side note, Kerala is also known for its political activism.<span style=""> </span>The people even my age I meet from there are incredibly knowledgeable of and opinionated about politics of the state and country and usually don’t hesitate in voicing themselves.<span style=""> </span>Kerala is the first Indian state to issue a communist government and also boasts the highest literacy rate in the country.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking back to the bus stop, Many warned to lift the feet up high when walking to avoid hitting a snake; evidently cobras and the like pose a threat to night walkers on dark paths and streets.<span style=""> </span>Back in Thrissur, I visited Many’s friends.<span style=""> </span>About a dozen of them gather daily in someone’s nearby house to watch television or play games like chess and cadam.<span style=""> </span>They play cadam constantly, I’ve played it too in Many’s house.<span style=""> </span>Cadam is basically like pool but involves flicking chips as opposed to striking balls and is played on a smooth wooden board about a square meter big.<span style=""> </span>You either play teams and try to get either the black or white chips in, or the chips are worth points and you tally each individual score at the end.<span style=""> </span>Many’s friends are amazingly good at it; I suppose it makes sense though if you’re playing it everyday.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some of Many’s friends speak some English, but most have difficulty with it and stick with Malayalam; also some that know English are too shy or embarrassed to try to use it with a native English speaker.<span style=""> </span>I remember when a television show in English came on, I asked if they understood what was happening.<span style=""> </span>They really didn’t have much of an idea and just liked watching the actors and visual effects.<span style=""> </span>Lots of people in <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> learn English though media like television and movies; it also fuels conceptualizations of the west (like loose women) as a result. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">That night at Many’s house, his mother had made still more food for dinner, but I honestly was still filled from lunch.<span style=""> </span>Many, his nephew, and I slept comfortably on mats on the floor in the living room afterwards.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next day for breakfast we had idli (soft rice cakes) accompanied with a green ayurvedic beverage which was made of many herbs and vegetables and that tasted like a freshly mowed lawn.<span style=""> </span>After, Many and I were headed to the backwaters.<span style=""> </span>Kerala is famous for its winding waterways through villages, and many tourists come specifically to coast on them, relaxing and observing local village life.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We went by train and stopped in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Kochi</st1:place></st1:city> for an egg biryani lunch.<span style=""> </span>After the three hour train ride, we had arrived in Kottayam and asked for directions to the ferry that could take us through the backwaters to Allepuzha, a coastal city and the starting point of the backwaters.<span style=""> </span>We were directed to another town 45 minutes away.<span style=""> </span>When we had arrived, we were dismayed to hear that we were misdirected and the ferry actually was in Kottayam.<span style=""> </span>Taking the bus the whole way back, we narrowly missed the last ferry for the day and were rendered stuck in Kottayam for the night.<span style=""> </span>We were hoping on making it to Allephuzha that evening and leaving back to Thrissur the next morning to observe a Kathakali (traditional Keralan dance/drama form) school, but that endeavor had to be forgone for a morning ferry ride the next day and day trip back to Thrissur. <span style=""> </span>I guess that’s why it’s always best to check a direction you get against more than one person; following the directions of the man in Kottayam didn’t necessarily ruin our plans, but certainly significantly redirected them.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Searching for a place to stay the night, I flipped through my Lonely Planet guide.<span style=""> </span>There were only apparently a few places to stay in Kottayam, and the lowest priced one was booked full.<span style=""> </span>Many called the next one on the list and we were relieved to hear they had vacancies.<span style=""> </span>The hotel was a thirty minute walk into town, and upon getting there it was dark.<span style=""> </span>Many and I walked up to the ill-lit reception desk and when we asked for a room the man just shook his head at us.<span style=""> </span>I was alarmed that the last vacancy had been taken and we were going to have to continue searching, but Many talked with the man for some time in Malayalam and eventually we got a key.<span style=""> </span>I was really confused, but Many tried to explain in his broken English what had happened.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Apparently the manager was concerned about the possibility of illegal activities being conducted in the hotel.<span style=""> </span>Although we don’t know for sure, it seems like he denied us rooms initially specifically because we were foreign; Many had spoken earlier in Malayalam on the phone and there had been vacancies, but the story obviously was different when he actually saw us and could easily assume we were foreigners.<span style=""> </span>Maybe recently there were incidents of prostitution or otherwise involving foreigners, and that’s why we were denied entrance.<span style=""> </span>Even if that were the case though, eventually you have to lend rooms out to make a business, right?<span style=""> </span>Very confusing.<span style=""> </span>Also, we noticed walking around the hotel that every single room was vacant.<span style=""> </span>The reason we eventually got a room was because Many had explained to him that we had called earlier and because he physically showed him my Lonely Planet book which verified that we were indeed genuine tourists.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The manager was charging rs.350 for the room, but I refused to pay more than rs.300, mainly that’s because what Lonely Planet claimed to be the cost.<span style=""> </span>I imagined it was more likely that he was ripping us off than it was likely that the price had actually been raised.<span style=""> </span>He then asked how long we were staying; upon answering that we were leaving early the next morning, he agreed to rs.300.<span style=""> </span>Evidently he was charging us for the full next day as well in his original price.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For dinner, we walked around the town and at the suggestion of a vender wandered into a small restaurant at the end of a narrow alleyway off the main street.<span style=""> </span>Although it was out of the way, many people were there and I was glad to be at a place where the locals ate.<span style=""> </span>We ordered spicy beef fry, tapioca (like eating chunks of potato), mussel curry, and kulluh.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t quite know what the mussel curry was until a few days later when Many remembered what to call it in English.<span style=""> </span>He told me initially that it was made of ostrich.<span style=""> </span>When I gave a confused look, he elaborated by telling me that they’re scooped from the bottom of the backwaters in Kerala.<span style=""> </span>Then I was sure it wasn’t an ostrich.<span style=""> </span>Whatever I thought it was at the time, it was unique to Kerala, and I was excited to try it.<span style=""> </span>The meal was delicious and definitely a high-point of our trip.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way back to the hotel, Many stopped at a vender to get an omelet.<span style=""> </span>A few men approached me with wide eyes and happily introduced themselves.<span style=""> </span>They asked if Many was my guide, and I responded with a “no, he’s actually my friend, we study together.”<span style=""> </span>The men said something in Malayalam to Many and then from there heated discussion erupted.<span style=""> </span>The situation deteriorated into a shouting match; I remained sitting on the sidewalk.<span style=""> </span>Normally I would have tried to cool things down by being a third opinion or something, but I was as confused as you are reading this and just figured it was best to sit and wait it out.<span style=""> </span>The men ended up leaving in exasperation.<span style=""> </span>Although I asked Many about that situation for the rest of the weekend, and although he tried his very best each time to explain to me what happened, I still don’t have a great idea of what went on.<span style=""> </span>Basically I think the men somehow insulted Many by bringing up his dark skin and Dalit (of low caste) identity.<span style=""> </span>Who was most accountable for aggravating the situation I had no idea, but because I didn’t have a good sense of what exactly went on, I figured it was best not to throw blame on anyone, and although the situation had been significant and dramatic, I needed to remain neutral to it all, quite difficult because I knew I would have an opinion if there weren’t obstructing language barriers hindering my understanding of what happened.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That evening we went to bed early to wake up for the first ferry the next morning.<span style=""> </span>Good plan.<span style=""> </span>Except that I woke up in pain at like 1 in the morning.<span style=""> </span>From then until morning, my health got worse and worse which meant I continued to remain awake for the whole night. <span style=""> </span>Basically I was having severe abdominal discomfort and nausea, and the heavily humid room riddled with mosquitoes didn’t make it any more pleasant.<span style=""> </span>I also got to know the bathroom quite well.<span style=""> </span>The toilet was my least favorite; it was a cross between an Indian and Western toilet, so it was basically like a toilet bowl without a toilet seat and had water in it like it was supposed to flush but didn’t, so you just ended up pouring water on it to clean it which didn’t work well at all.<span style=""> </span>I remember miserably worshiping that porcelain god though both of my ends, sweating like anything in the humidity, with intolerable smells wafting about, dirt smears all over the walls, and huge roaches crawling about the floor.<span style=""> </span>And then I smiled.<span style=""> </span>In some way, that experience had made my half-year stay in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> more complete, and I was happy about it.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next morning it was hard to walk without feeling really nauseous, but we headed to the ferry anyway as I tried hard to keep down water to replenish my fluids.<span style=""> </span>The thought of breakfast made me want to vomit again, and the auto-rickshaw exhaust and stagnant sewage outside didn’t help one bit.<span style=""> </span>I never knew for sure what made me sick, but I imagine that most likely it was that ‘ostrich’ (aka mussel) curry.<span style=""> </span>I sank into the ferry seat and even though it wasn’t great being on a swaying boat, I was grateful to sit down.<span style=""> </span>The ferry ride turned out to be pretty enjoyable, we coasted down the backwaters and saw a lot of nice scenery including water lilies, birds, village life, and loads of palm trees, rice paddies, and houseboats.<span style=""> </span>The people on the ferry were mostly tourists but also villagers would ride the ferry for transport.<span style=""> </span>The group sitting in front of us was from <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">Germany</st1:country-region></st1:place> and was on a vacation, planning on getting a houseboat at Allepuzha for a few days.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The houseboats are basically a few comfortable a/c rooms and lounge areas covered by thatched palm leaves, catered by Keralan cooks, and propelled by motors to coast around the backwaters.<span style=""> </span>Although this is not my idea of time or money well spent, many tourists flock to the area specifically for the houseboats and are willing to pay a pretty penny for them at that.<span style=""> </span>A houseboat for a day and night will be anything from about $125 USD.<span style=""> </span>The ferry fare was 500 times less at only a quarter, and provided a nice three hour tour of the area.<span style=""> </span>I guess if you’re coming specifically to relax, maybe a houseboat is a good deal, but I was here to know and experience <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, something not accomplished from a lounge chair.<span style=""> </span>The ferry ride was just what I needed, I got to see the famous backwaters at a low price and by afternoon after a short visit to the beach, we were headed back to Thrissur.<span style=""> </span>After disembarking from the ferry I felt more and more sick, and by the time I had gotten on the train home, it was too much for me to lift my head and look straight ahead.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I fell asleep on the train only to be awakened by a conductor who wanted an extra rs.800 from us because we were in the reserved seating class.<span style=""> </span>Usually there’s enough space in the reserved class to sit or lay down for a shorter train ride, but because of the holiday there were lots of people and no extra room.<span style=""> </span>To avoid the extra fee, we retreated to the general class (the first time I’d been), which only had hard wooden seats packed with loud people.<span style=""> </span>Just what I needed.<span style=""> </span>It wasn’t that bad though, I fell asleep on my backpack and by the time we were back in Thrissur I was actually walking without discomfort.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That afternoon in Thrissur I had an Ayurvedic massage.<span style=""> </span>If there’s a place in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region> to get a massage, it’s Kerala, and I was excited to see what all of the fuss was about.<span style=""> </span>Scantily dressed in only a thin tiny undergarment, you’re laid down on a flat wooden table and have warm herbal oils massaged into your skin from head to toe.<span style=""> </span>Acupressure was also used on the feet, my favorite part.<span style=""> </span>While getting massaged, it’s hard not to slide around on that table, I practically almost fell off at some points.<span style=""> </span>They also massage your scalp and face; the whole deal took two men one hour.<span style=""> </span>I also had a steam bath afterward; I was sat in this box maybe a cubic meter in volume, and when it’s closed, only the head sticks out.<span style=""> </span>Steam is pumped into the box for 15 minutes or so, and you can breathe freely all the while.<span style=""> </span>Even after a long shower, I was still slippery and greasy.<span style=""> </span>I was also really loose and relaxed, although if you ask my honest opinion, you feel even better than that after doing an hour of yoga, although you’re not fragrant after yoga and smelling of herbs and coconut oil.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That evening Many and I spent more time with his friends playing cadam and such, and I actually got ok at it by the end of the evening.<span style=""> </span>I also lost miserably at chess.<span style=""> </span>Some of them wanted to wake up early the next morning and go running with me, and even though I hadn’t brought proper attire and my oily feet were slipping out of my sandals while I was just slowly walking around, I was eager to spend the last of my time in Kerala to the fullest.<span style=""> </span>After Many and I picked up his older sister, Sunitha, who was visiting for a few days, we headed to his house for rest.<span style=""> </span>On the way back home we saw men trying to repair a downed electrical pole; evidently a tree had fallen because one too many people had burned their garbage at its base, resulting in its collapse.<span style=""> </span>After some paratha and green pea curry (finally I had worked up some sort of appetite) and some conversations with Sunitha who spoke English surprisingly well, I was out like a light.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The next morning I was up at 5:30 for my ‘run’ with Raju and Vinod (two of Many’s friends).<span style=""> </span>Evidently they are in the habit of running everyday, which basically consists of walking and talking for 4 km and lightly jogging for 1 km.<span style=""> </span>We talked a great deal, including about Kerala’s famous harvest festival, Onam, which celebrates annually the return of an ancient king and marks the New Year (even though it occurs in the middle of September).<span style=""> </span>They also mentioned that when they were young, in their free time they’d like to play outdoor games like football and cricket, but they think the youngsters currently in the community are more involved with electronic indoor pass-times like television and computer gaming. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the way back they bought me a Keralan specialty, banana fry.<span style=""> </span>They’re basically banana halves fried into fritters and that morning was the first time I’d had them fresh and warm.<span style=""> </span>Later we met up with more friends and visited another one of their favorite gathering places, a nearby house that’s been under construction for a few years.<span style=""> </span>After more cadam, coconut, idli, and green juice back at Many’s house, it was time to say goodbyes, as my train was leaving at noon.<span style=""> </span>Sunitha and Many’s mother had prepared thirty roti wrapped in banana leaf as well as chicken curry for my train ride home.<span style=""> </span>The hospitality and generosity of that family never stopped amazing me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Many, Vinod, Raju, and Rathish accompanied me to the station to see me off.<span style=""> </span>They insisted that I return to Kerala soon and to be sure to let them know so we could all meet up again.<span style=""> </span><st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>’s a big country with many places to see, but I guess you never know for sure where you’ll be in the future.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">On the train back to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Hyderabad</st1:place></st1:city> were Melissa, Ben, Thy, Christopher, and Becca who had also been in Kerala, but they’d been there for a week and a half and had spent most of their time in the southern part of the state.<span style=""> </span>I waved at Many’s family who had congregated outside of their house to send me off with one more goodbye as the train zipped by their neighborhood and sat down with Melissa who told me all about their time in Kerala.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Two things she mentioned that struck me were their hike in a famous nature park and their attempts at renting a houseboat for a day.<span style=""> </span>The nature park they visited was famous for its wildlife and mountains, they sure did get to hike a lot but didn’t see a ton of animals.<span style=""> </span>They had hired a guide to take them at a cheaper price through a back way of the park but ended up being assaulted by leeches the whole way.<span style=""> </span>Melissa said she was bitten several times on her legs and even way up her thigh.<span style=""> </span>Evidently the leeches secrete a pain killer so you don’t feel them, but also an anticoagulant that helps them feed more easily but also keeps the blood running down your leg even after you peel the squirmy worm off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When renting a houseboat through the backwaters, they reserved one through a seemingly safe and reliable company to prevent being ripped off.<span style=""> </span>It didn’t work, and what Lonely Planet warned against came true.<span style=""> </span>The next day when they wer